


Frozen Hearts

by idoltina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bandit Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Bandit Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Prince Charming | David Nolan/Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-02-21 21:05:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 115,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13152027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idoltina/pseuds/idoltina
Summary: Outlaw Bandit AU loosely inspired by the season four finale, with creative license taken for alterations. After a falling out that has her leaving Sherwood Forest behind, Regina strikes out on her own once more, but Queen Snow has ordered the Royal Guard to conduct more raids in an effort to find her. As winter crashes into Misthaven Regina finds herself more of a liability than ever before, and she struggles to find shelter from the snow. The Merry Men set off in search of her but come up empty at every turn, and with each dead end Robin loses hope more and more every day. Between blizzards, Robin looks for love in all the wrong places, and all Regina can strive to do is survive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** adult language, allusions to forced imprisonment, blood, depictions of illness-induced weight loss, implied dub-con, discussion of previous murder, mild self-harm ideation, passive suicidal ideation, sexual situations, violence

Her hands are shaking.

The snow sneaks, slithers its way toward her skin, seeping through her boots at the patches most worn down. There’s a faint tingling around the edges of her feet, the tips of her toes and at the sharper edges of her ankles, pinpricks shooting down into muscle and bone. The sharp sting of the wind across her face is like the back of a hand striking her cheek, leaves her ears ringing with white noise. Lead runs through her, replaces her bones and poisons her muscles against her and she can’t keep her arms up, _how_ is she keeping her arms up, _how_ is she not impervious to the effects of snow at this point, when all she can feel is numb, sharp, tight— 

There’s a slight flicker, a shift in the landscape, and Regina wrinkles her nose in reply, eyes narrowing as she _wills_ her hands to stop shaking. She shouldn’t be out here much longer, should really get up out of the snow, off the ground. She’s losing light as it is, dusk settling over the forest like a blanket of gray against white. Her prospects will be even more bleak by the time night falls, the storm sweeping up options in its path with increasing fury. Still, she will not move from this spot, will not loosen her grip on her bow, will not release the arrow until her hand stops shaking — _why_ are they still shaking — because there is a fucking _rabbit_.

There is a fucking rabbit in front of her, just on the other side of the glen, between a clutch of trees and all at once her mind goes flat blank. For a moment she is nothing — not the dull ache at her lower back, or the weight of her hair over her shoulder, or the chapped, blistering, peeling skin of her lips. She is _nothing_ but the monster hollowing out a home in the pit of her stomach, clawing viciously at the walls until bile bleeds out and sends a fire licking, scorching its way up her throat.

Hunger personified, and screaming death into the void.

Her hands are still shaking, and the bow rattles against her gloves like the echo of teeth chattering against the cold.

It takes _all_ of her willpower, what little she has left, to draw in a deep enough breath to focus. She realizes, too late, her mistake: the breath seizes up before it really has much of a chance to build, chest immediately growing tight, pinched around the bottom of her lungs. The fire in her throat flares up and out, flooding her system with panic and she tries, she really does, to lean into it — to hold the breath, and not release, and ignore the the way bile builds against her sternum. In the end her effort is futile, though, hands shaking worse than before as her eyes narrow against the pinch that bubbles, boils, threatens to burst from the back of her throat and— 

The arrow flies, crooked and curved across the glen, and lands a good six feet to the right of the rabbit, who promptly scurry-hops off into the near-night dusk, tracks quickly being covered by still-falling snow.

“ _Fuck_!” she shouts into the storm, but it ends up lost, choked out through the cough she’d been fighting so hard against. Begrudgingly Regina gives herself over to it, allows Hunger to be shoved back into the hollow and doubles over with the force of her coughs, glove slipping, catching against bark as her palm presses for purchase. She struggles, gasps for breath between them, can’t quite draw enough and it has her squeezing her eyes shut against the pain, mind growing fuzzy. Another cough, this one rougher than before and the bow slips out of her fingers onto the forest floor as her arm wraps around her middle. Another, worse still, wet and thick and lodged firmly in her chest. Another, deep, hollow, rasping raw and rattling her lungs like bags of bones and another, another, another…

It’s not until the fit is tapering off — when her lungs have exhausted their signal flare and there’s a pressure behind her eyes that wants to well up into tears but can’t quite manage it — that Regina even realizes she’d fallen to her knees and sunk into the snow, and the knobby, curved hardness beneath her is her bow being buried down deep.

“Shit,” she hisses, the last handful of coughs feeble as she clumsily shuffles back and plunges a gloved hand into the snow, fingers wrapping delicately around her bow and pulling it up and out. What little light is left is enough to tell her she hasn’t broken it, and rather than waste precious breath on relief, Hunger finds itself glaring across the glen at the place the prey had been perched.

It’s been three whole days since her last meal, since she’d last sated Hunger’s fury with the last meager portion of food she’d been rationing out for well over a week. She’d used the last of her coin just to get it in the first place (got far less than she should’ve, frankly, but she’d been desperate and hadn’t hid it well from the merchant, and she’d been too dizzy with Hunger’s pangs to do something as trivial as _barter_ ). No manner of careful rationing was enough to make it last forever though — it would’ve spoiled eventually, anyway — and for the last three days she’s been left with nothing but what Nature’s wilderness has to offer.

As it turns out that means very little, as winter crashes into Misthaven like a wave looking to drown. With each passing day Regina continues to strike out on her own, cold seeps deeper into the ground, sucking the life out of the forest and sending what little remains into hiding. Every garden has been covered in frost. Blossoms on every bush no longer bloom. Tracks in the snow have long since disappeared— either into the deep dark of caverns, or beyond the mountains on the other side of the Forbidden Forest, to the kingdom in the far west that’s too close to the sea for snow.

That _rabbit_ , measley as it might have been, was the first real piece of game she’s seen in _weeks_ , and Hunger turns against her in a blinding rage now, her ears ringing worse than ever. She’s a better shot than that, she _knows_ she is, could have — _would have_ landed that arrow just _so_ in order to make the most of its meat, could’ve used the fur for, well, _anything_ to help keep her warm. Her cloak is threadbare at best, at this point, but every opportunity to mend or replace it has gone up against the decision of whether or not to eat for a week, and, well.

Regina _has_ to eat.

There’s a small voice in the back of her mind, dry and derisive (and echoing, she knows, a version of her she’d abandoned when she’d left) that can’t help harping on what a hypocrite she’s been these last few weeks. There’s little good putting food in her belly will do, if she freezes to death in the meantime, but Regina pushes the thought (the memory) down and away, and slowly rises to her feet.

If she can’t find food, she needs to find shelter.

The effort of reaching back to hook her bow back around her quiver stretches the already tight threads holding her chest together thin and taut, leaves her wincing in lieu of inhaling sharply. Instinctively, she reaches for the waterskin tied at her hip, fumbles with the plug for a half moment before finally prying it loose. The gasp that rises out of her is raw, rough and grating around the edges, and where she’d denied Hunger relief earlier she allows Thirst to hope for it now, tips the opening against her lips and— 

Empty.

It’s fucking empty.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

Water, she really can’t do without for much longer. If she weren’t so ill, perhaps, she’d last another day, maybe two. As it is, each hour she goes without water makes each of her fits worse than before, picks up the pace of the pounding at the base of her skull and forces her to stop for rest far more frequently than she can really afford in all of this snow. Relief evaporates from her lungs like smoke spiraling up after a fire extinguished as she forces the plug back into the opening, her tongue growing more cottony in her mouth by the minute.

Begrudgingly, she trudges across the glen, boots half-dragging through snow ankle-deep. Using the last vestiges of light, Regina sifts through the snow that’s accumulated in the last few minutes until her fingers enclose around the long, thin shaft of her arrow. With the way her luck’s been going, she doesn’t even want to imagine how difficult it would be to craft new ones right now.

Each one is more precious with each new day that dawns, and Regina indulges, just for a moment, in clutching the arrow close to her chest.

(She does not, _does not_ think of home.)

The tremors in her hands metastasize like a disease, leave every limb trembling around the ice in her veins. It takes her two tries to reach back and deposit the arrow into her quiver, her fingers fumbling further as she pulls her hood up over her head, reaches for the tattered edges of her cloak to wrap it more tightly around her too-rapidly (regrettably) thinning frame.

Blearily, she blinks up and around, tries to discern through increasing flurry the general direction she’d seen the sun slip behind the treeline. It’d been off her left, at her back when she’d spotted the rabbit’s movement before, or at least, she _thinks_ that’s where it’d been. She should venture east, back in the direction she’d been travelling before she stopped, and that’s on her left— right, it’s on her right, it has to be on her right.

Right?

The uncertainty she tries to swallow down only makes it halfway, gets stuck somewhere in her throat along with the rest of dry and sick and ache. She can feel it hover there as she resumes her trek across the forest, positions itself in the middle and forces each shallow, stilted breath she takes to work its way around the lump. It sets alight spark to flame in her chest all over again, makes her feel like she’s _burning_ from the inside out, and in the dark she loses track of just how far she’s traveled.

The moon is meek tonight, behind the storm of a sky, and the brief flickers of it that manages to peek through the ever-increasing snowfall ( _blizzard_ , the back of her mind supplies, harsh and hissing, _this is turning into a fucking blizzard and you know it, find some fucking shelter before it’s too late_ ) do little to light a safe path for her to follow. In the end she’s forced to stumble mostly blind across dirt, through snow, arm outstretched from beneath the barely-there warmth of her cloak as her only defense against obstacles in her makeshift path. Occasionally her palm slaps against the bark of a tree trunk, clumsily navigates around the near side before pushing her away and onward.

It’s the hills, really, that she struggles with the most. Ordinarily she’d be able to make quick work of them, muscles toned from years of exploring forests from one kingdom to the next. But she’s _tired_ : she hasn’t eaten in three days, her waterskin is empty, she is fucking _freezing_ and burning alive all at once, and each extra step up a gentle incline feels like climbing the mountains in the west.

She should’ve followed the animals, to the shore, before the first snowfall, before— 

Before.

It’s as she’s coming up over the top of a hill that her foot catches, trips over a large, protruding tree root, and she’s left stumbling, skidding a sinking path down the hill, heart pulsing fear like a searing burn straight through the walls of ice she’s constructed around it. She’s not quite sure how far down the hill she struggles not to fall, but she thinks she’s near the bottom, based on the incline, when her hands finally find purchase against a large tree, knees scraping painfully against the bark as half her body weight slams against the trunk, her bag doing little to cushion the blow. A gasp shoots up out of her like a knife, high and somehow remarkably clear given how heavy, wet, tight her lungs are. There’s nothing for her to do but relent, rest her weight against the tree and squeeze her eyes shut as she tries to catch her breath. Idly, she rolls her ankle a little, some of the panic receding when she doesn’t feel a flare of pain at the movement. 

In all of its twisted morality, fate — Regina figures — probably thinks sparing her a broken ankle is _kind_.

(She doesn’t have anywhere near the energy required to be angry at the fact that she’s not all that inclined to disagree, given the circumstances.)

When she lifts her gaze up from the ground at long last, she finds a pair of glowing orange eyes staring back at her.

Startled, Regina stumbles back with a slight shout, nearly misses tripping back over another root and sinking back down into the snow. Her heart is pounding _furiously_ now, hard enough to break through all of the ice, and she can feel each shard lancing through her veins, piercing through and pinning her in place until she is nothing again — not sick, or Hunger, or Thirst, but Fear, masquerading as Heart.

Then she blinks once, twice, and all at once she realizes those aren’t eyes at all: they’re light — the flames, she thinks, of candles flickering dimly within the chambers of lanterns.

 _Finally_.

She doesn’t think, doesn’t plan or gauge her surroundings, doesn’t even so much as reach for the dagger at her hip, much less her bow. She refuses to even blink, eyes locked on light several hundred feet away as she’s pulled forward like a moth to a flame. Her hasty approach is costing her, she knows, she can feel what little energy she has left rapidly depleting, legs quaking with the effort of staying standing at all, but she _can’t_ stop, can’t sit and give her body the rest it so desperately needs because what if they move away, what if they _put it out_ — 

_Crack_.

Instantly, Regina freezes on the spot like she’s been doused in fairydust, and for a few precious, _precious_ seconds, she allows her gaze to drift down to the spot beneath her feet. There, beneath her left boot and stretching out a good fifty feet in front of her, is a pond frozen over with ice, and without enough light she can’t quite tell if it’s thick enough to traverse.

There’s a second _crack_ from beneath her boot, this one sharper than before, and Regina takes that as a definitive _no_.

Slowly, carefully, Regina lifts her leg off of the ice and retreats back to the pond’s edge, fuzziness fading from her mind enough to give her the clarity she’s so desperately needed. She has not survived this long, has not come this far to be done in by a streak of blind, illness-induced recklessness. Desperation, she’s given credence to in recent weeks, has allowed for its failings in much the same way she’s allowed Hunger and Thirst to dictate her emotions, and Snow to build a barrier around her heart.

But this— letting illness consume her mind until it has one of its own, until she is nothing but Sick, in place of her soul? That she won’t allow.

The light, thankfully, hasn’t gone out in the space of her little misstep, and though it takes her a little longer Regina makes her way around the pond instead. It’s significantly brighter on the other side, light spreading out across the snow in an orange glow, and the closer she gets the more the glow covers, consumes. It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust to the change, but each step brings the world before her into stark clarity, and two little beacons become four, and then eight, multiplied out across the expanse beyond.

 _A village_.

A smile creeps its way across her face, broken and barely there but she resolutely does not care, lets hope blossom in her chest against every bout of cynicism, deliberately ignores the way the ringing in her ears has warped into a horn blaring, warning her, reminding her just how dangerous hope can be— how much _more_ disappointment hurts, when she loses it, in the end.

(She has been trying so, so hard in the last month _not_ to lose it.)

At long last she’s close enough to make out the vague outline of the buildings, squints hard to discern the distance between the cottage at the edge of the town and the next one over. The second isn’t a cottage, she realizes, but a barn, and the small bud of hope in her is like a balm against her soul.

Belatedly, she realizes she may not exactly be all that presentable, but there’s not much to be done for it beyond pushing her hair away from her face and focusing what little clarity she’s claimed forward into her eyes. She hesitates when she reaches the door of the cottage, sways a little on the spot as she tries, only half-succeeds at swallowing, clearing her throat. Her hand hovers in the air for a few seconds before her knuckles finally land, rap rather clumsily and probably a touch too loud against the door.

Behind her, the wind picks up, blusters and blows the edges of her cloaks about, and Regina fumbles for the edges once more, arms curling around her middle without a second thought. She strains to hear anything above the wind’s howl, only just refrains from pressing her ear against the door to discern movement or— 

“Yes?” a voice answers from the other side, cautious and too-quiet against the storm. “Who’s there?”

“A traveler,” Regina answers, struggling to raise her voice above the storm, “just passing through.”

There’s a very long pause, silence against the cacophonous symphony already vibrating through her ears, and then the definitive drag of a bar lock being shifted, the click of a handle being pressed. Slowly, very, _very_ fucking slowly, the door opens, just enough to let more light spill through the crack, and as she squints against it Regina’s just able to make out the face of a woman peering out at her, apprehension clear in her eyes. “What do you want?”

“Shelter,” Regina breathes— croaks, really, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “I saw your barn, I was hoping, with the storm—” She falters as the woman pulls the door open a few inches more, the rest of her explanation dying in her throat. It’s the woman’s turn to squint at her, clearly sizing her up to try and discern whether or not she’s a threat. Idly, Regina’s fingers fidget with the end of her braid beneath her cloak, fatigue starting to settle in around the edges of her vision while her mind is briefly unoccupied.

Clarity washes over the woman’s face like a wave, Regina breathes in, and then the woman is shaking her head, lips pursed into a thin line. “I’m sorry,” the woman says, the words an even harsher hand than even the wind had been earlier. “I can’t.”

The same pressure-pain from before slams against the back of her eyes, pushes her closer to tears than last time and has her losing focus, mind growing fuzzier with each second. “Please,” she says, voice catching, breaking slightly and that’s the illness, she knows, and Thirst, stealing her voice, “just for the— just until the storm lets up. I won’t be in the way, I won’t take anything, I can help with—”

“You’ve been in the forest too long, Miss,” the woman says, and it sounds almost kind. “The Royal Guard has been raiding villages all over the kingdom.” A beat — Regina’s heart sinks down to the pit of her belly — and then, “If the queen caught wind of even a _whisper_ of a rumor that you’d been here—”

“No one would have to know,” Regina insists, fingers flexing anxiously to try and force some feeling back into them. “I can be gone before sunrise, no one else in the village or your household would ever have to know I was here.”

Again, the woman shakes her head, and Regina forces her desperation down to knocking knees in an effort not to let it control her voice. “I _can’t_ ,” the woman insists, gripping the edge of the door hard. “My husband’s been sent to the front, it’s just me and I can’t—” For a moment she’s absolutely silent, teeth digging into her lower lip as she gives Regina another once over. She softens around the edges, just a little, but it’s not until the woman takes a half-step back and glances over her shoulder that Regina finally accepts the woman’s answer as final and unyielding.

At the other end of the room is a small bed shoved into the corner and Regina’s gaze settles, with startling clarity, on the two small children curled beneath layers of blankets, faces lax with the ease of sleep.

Regina’s heart flutters, flips inside her chest, and even after the woman’s turned back to look at her it takes Regina a good long moment to remember how to breathe. “I understand,” she says, and she does, she _does_ , but it doesn’t make forcing the words out hurt any less. The pressure behind her eyes builds to the point of stinging, and she’s closer to tears than she’s been all evening— closer than she feels she has any right to be, right now. Quickly, she bows her head and lets her eyes slip shut, nodding even as her chin trembles. “I wouldn’t ask you to— I understand. It’s alright.”

It takes her a moment longer than she should— a moment longer than she’s proud of to find the wherewithal to shift, turn to walk back out into the storm, but it’s that small bit of hesitation, in the end, that grants her grace. “Wait,” the woman calls, still trying to be quiet. “Just… wait here, a moment.”

Curious, Regina turns back toward the house even as the door shuts in her face, back to swaying again as she fights to keep her balance. The blare of warning is back in her ears again, has her gut twisting with anxiety at the what ifs: _what if she’s an informant, what if the Guard’s already stationed in the village, what if Snow’s already here_? Instinctively, Regina’s hand travels up, rubs at her throat as she swallows hard, but before she can even think to summon up the strength to turn tail and run, the door is opening once more, this time wider than before.

“Here,” the woman says by way of greeting, arms stretched out in offering. Regina glances down at the woman’s hands and tries— _fails_ to suck in a proper breath at the cloth draped across the woman’s palms. At the center she’s piled together a meager (bountiful, _beautiful_ ) assortment of food from her kitchen: a small loaf of bread; a few strips of meat dried, preserved for the winter; a clutch of eggs; a modest wedge of cheese— cheese, the woman has _cheese_ , gods fucking bless her, honestly.

“It’s not much,” the woman adds after a moment, sounding a little awkward. “I’ve had to ration more carefully, this winter, and we’ve been unable to plant anything, in the garden— plus the trees and bushes are all barren, there wasn’t even enough time before the snow to try and preserve anything but—”

“Thank you,” Regina rasps, hand falling down to her heart as she blinks back up at the woman. This time, her smile feels earned, and with the pressure behind her eyes beginning to abate Regina knows she’s started to cry, tears mingling with snow as they land on her lashes. “This is very kind of you.” 

The woman doesn’t smile, not really, but her mouth twists into something Regina thinks is supposed to resemble one as she wraps up the food in the cloth, tying it together with a knot before pressing the bundle into Regina’s hands. Gingerly, Regina slings her bag off of one shoulder and brings it around her front. She pulls at the strings to open it, just enough to nestle the gift carefully atop the rest of her possessions, and uses her cloak as a barrier to keep the snow out.

“Is that empty?”

Startled, Regina blinks back over at the woman as she pulls her bag back over her shoulder, brow knitting in confusion. “What?”

The woman nods at Regina’s hip. “Your waterskin— is it empty?”

Her whole face feels hot, flushed against the stain of her tears, and she finds herself fighting the instinct to rub at her throat again. She chews at her bottom lip for a second before nodding, fingers twitching in an effort not to reach for the waterskin. “It’s been hard to find fresh water, with how cold it’s been, but… if you know where there’s a well, maybe, then I could—”

“I wouldn’t bother with one,” the woman dismisses, leaning against the doorjamb. “More trouble than it’s worth on a night like this, honestly.” A beat, and then, hand outstretched again, “Give it here.”

Still, Regina’s teeth dig into her lip as she glances down at her waterskin, debating. She can’t afford to lose it — she doesn’t have a spare, and she’s nothing she could use to make another — and the thought of letting it out of her sight, even for a moment, has anxiety twisting at her core again. Even if the woman brought it back, there’s no way Regina would know what she’d put in it, or if she’d been forced, or worse, bought out, to slip in some poison— 

And _that_ , Regina decides firmly, is a _stupid_ thought: this woman has shown her nothing but kindness, even if she is refusing Regina shelter, and she _needs_ water, above anything else. “Thank you,” Regina says again, carefully unfastening the rope from her belt and passing the waterskin over. “Really, I—”

The woman’s shaking her head and disappearing back into the cottage before Regina can fumble over the rest of her words. She takes the dismissal for the reprieve it is, uses the extra moment to try and regain her composure, Thirst hammering at the base of her throat in anticipation. The third time the door opens it’s the widest yet, and as the waterskin — now blessedly full — gets passed between them, the source of the light makes itself known, fireplace crackling quietly in the far wall. This time, Regina feels the full force of it, heat spilling from the hearth and tingling at the tips of her fingers, her toes, her nose.

She resists the temptation to lean into the warmth, to renew pleas for shelter, but she’s not immune to the fire’s effects, and where fatigue had settled in around the edges before she is _exhausted_ now, shoulders sagging with the weight of keeping herself upright. She can’t linger any longer, not with her willpower rapidly dwindling, and the woman has retreated back into the safety and warmth, looking more than ready to shut the door for good. “You should head west,” the woman suggests, eyes sweeping over Regina’s frame once more. “She has less of a presence there, and the snow shouldn’t be— you should head west.”

Regina’s lips twist into a wry smile as she fastens the waterskin to her belt; the time for that, she knows, is long gone. “Yeah,” she laughs wetly, not quite looking the woman in the eye anymore. “Thank you, again, for your help. I’d be much worse off without it.”

She’s spinning on her heel and retreating back into the cold before the woman can reply, the movement making her dizzier than before, vision swimming with fresh tears, and she’s barely ten steps away from the cottage when she hears the door click shut behind her.

Regina has seen, firsthand, just how much damage Snow can do — how much happiness she can rip out of the world, one chest at a time — but she understands now, where she didn’t before. They’re scared, the people, of incurring Snow’s wrath, and after the destruction she’d left behind in the Willow Forest Regina can’t say she blames them for the hypervigilance and paranoia. It’s so much worse than it was before— Before, and the twist of guilt that coils in her belly bears the blood of a man who no longer exists in her world.

She’s been away from her solitude for far too long.

It’s better this way, she tells herself (has, every damn day since she left); on her own, she ceases to be a liability.

(On her own, there is no one around for her to ruin, and she doesn’t have to destroy everything she touches.)

She’s crying openly now as she stumbles back in the direction she came— _weeping_ , frankly, and where she refuses her pride she cannot ignore the aching burn in her chest. It _hurts_ , badly, to cry this hard— to cry at all when she’s this ill, chest spasming as she hiccups, struggles for breath. Still, she doesn’t stop until she’s beyond the treeline again, stumbling through snow back to the pond that had nearly claimed her, and it’s here she decides to stay the night.

It takes her far too long to settle in, chest as tight as it is by the time she stops running (walking, she can’t run, hasn’t been able to for over a week, but it’d felt like running, in the burn of her legs where muscle was supposed to be). She doubles over, leans against a tree for purchase and squeezes her eyes shut, legs shaking under own weight. Bile rises up in her throat and she _wills_ herself not to vomit, finds relief in the coughing fit that wracks her body once more. Each breath she takes feels like half, leaves her light-headed and swaying on her feet. Blearily, she reaches for her waterskin, pries the stopper loose once more and brings the opening to her lips.

She drinks half.

She drinks half, and it’s selfish, and foolish, and she’s going to regret it in the morning, but the liquid going down is cool, soothing, and she immediately feels ten times less worse than before, dizzy spell fading almost as quickly as it had begun.

(She needed this, she reasons, to even hope to see morning.)

With what little energy she has left, Regina drops her bag to the ground, deposits her bow and quiver next to it and sets to constructing a makeshift tent from the one blanket she’d had the sense to bring with her. It’s crude, and will do little to shield her from the cold, hard ground, but she doesn’t have any other choice, tonight. Setting up camp here, against the curved hollow at the base of the tree, is probably the best she’ll be able to do for a long while.

Really, camp is too generous a term for the home— the _bed_ she makes herself for the night, and tastes like poison on her tongue, but she’s been making do with what she has the last six weeks or so; she can do it again.

(It’s all she has ever done, in the end, and she hopes, against her better judgement, that it’ll be enough to see them— her through to spring.)

The small bundle of food remains untouched and tucked safely away in her bag; she doesn’t have the stomach for it tonight, after another coughing fit, and her mind will be clearer, in the morning, for rationing it out properly. Tonight, she sinks down onto the ground and wraps her cloak around her tight. Tonight, her heartbeat roars in her ears, a too-loud thumping that doesn’t bode well, for the sickness in her chest.

Tonight, like every night in the last three weeks or so, Regina reaches down to the bottom of her bag and pulls out Robin’s scarf, wraps it around her neck and curls up small, against the elements.

Tonight, like every night, Regina closes her eyes, and dreams of home.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Under cover of darkness, Robin peers around the corner and scans the desolate courtyard. It’s almost eerie under the waning moonlight, shadows skittering across stone as the storm blows clouds to hide the moon in patches. The snow is beginning to pile, a little at a time, around the base of each pillar, the ground glistening wet with frost. Idly, he half-glances up at the tower, mind mulling over what extra precautions they’ll have to take if the stones are too slick to climb.

“Bloody fucking hell, it’s freezing out here,” Will mutters next to him, blowing breath against his gloves to try and warm his face a bit.

“Works in our favor,” Robin murmurs, doing one last sweep of the courtyard. “Not even the guards will come out, in this weather, which means fewer for us to contend with, should we cross paths. Besides, we’ll be inside soon enough.”

“I still think this idea of yours is mad,” Will huffs, but he follows all the same, when Robin takes his first steps out from the shadows into the courtyard. 

“Give yourself some credit,” Robin says, fingers flexing at the ready for his dagger, an arrow at the first sound or sign of movement. “It was your observation that gave me the idea in the first place.”

“Mate, keep in mind that I’ve been to Wonderland and—” There’s a soft _snap_ from somewhere across the courtyard and Will stops, grabs hold of Robin’s arm and forces him against the tower wall for cover. For a moment neither of them breathe against the cold, too-aware of the way sound breaks through the snowstorm, but eventually they both relax, and Will’s hand relaxes on Robin’s arm. He squeezes once, though, before letting go, and the crooked little smile he offers up when Robin glances over at him is almost enough to make him laugh.

Almost.

“Trust me, mate,” Will says dryly. “You’d fit right in.”

Rolling his eyes, Robin sidesteps around the tower until they’re nearly below the balcony and then stops, pulls the long loop of rope up and over his head and starts to unspool it. “And you of all people should understand the lengths a person will go to for love, Will.” That earns Robin a heavy sigh and a begrudging _yeah, yeah_ from Will, who takes one end of the rope to fasten the weight, and arrow. “This is the best lead we’ve had in weeks.”

“Not sure I’d call it a lead,” Will mutters, making sure the knots are secure before passing off the arrow.

“You agreed, Will,” Robin sighs, squinting up at the poorly lit balcony before moving off to the right a bit. “As did the others. If you’ve changed your mind, you can go. I can get up there just fine on my own.”

“Yeah,” Will snorts, taking a step back to give Robin room enough to make the shot clean, “because that worked out so well last time.”

“A simple thank you would suffice,” Robin throws back, but he lets it go, knows Will _is_ grateful for what Robin did for him, weeks back. And Will’s not going anywhere, just like the rest of the men scattered and stationed at various points around the grounds. They’ve planned this about as well as they ever could, really, been smart about taking advantage of the queen’s absence to conduct their little mission.

Okay, fine, it’s a break-in.

All of their meticulous planning, right down to the efforts they’d put into procuring rudimentary blueprints of the palace, is very much a reflection on the mark Regina had left, on their band. If she ever forgives him for being such a right bastard, he thinks—hopes she’d be proud.

They just… have to find her, first.

The next several moments are a comfortable silence between them while they work, stick to the shadows as they loop the rope between railings and back down, tying off knots and making sure it’s secure before testing their weight on it. A few more adjustments but then it holds, tight and firm, and Will climbs up the rope first, with Robin standing guard. Will’s the stronger grip, between the pair of them, can do better should he need to pull Robin up and over the railing quickly.

He should be nervous, should be unsettled at the still and the silence and the suspicious lack of guards about the grounds, but there’s no space for it in his belly, not with the way worry quakes around the base of his heart, and yearning twists his belly into knots. And that’s— he’s being short-sighted, he knows, sees the forest, and not the trees, and damn the consequences. But he can’t afford to mull over the _what if_ s any more than he already has, in planning this break-in: they will stop him in his tracks before he’s had the chance to begin, if he does.

And above all else, Robin will not stop until he finds her.

(He refuses to entertain the notion that they may not find her, after all.)

So it’s with a sucking breath and gritted teeth that Robin grips the rope and begins to climb, glove against rope as he reaches up, one hand over the other, to pull his weight higher. He nearly stops, halfway up, hisses at the pain that lances through him on a particularly rough pull, but Robin pushes through it, grimaces, groans the rest of the way up. Perhaps this is pushing it a bit, all things considered, but Regina had been right: the weather is only getting worse.

They are running out of time.

He’s grateful for the hand Will lends him in getting up and over the balcony railing, moreso at the way Will claps him on the back in lieu of the question most others would ask. Robin rolls his shoulders back a bit to settle in his skin again and nods in reply, beckoning Will forward with a wave of his hand.

Together, they damn near tip-toe off of the balcony, brush past too-heavy drapes and duck into the inner chambers. A quick survey of the room tells them that it’s mostly dark save for one flickering candle in the far corner (kept lit by magic, Robin guesses, and pointedly ignores the twist in his gut that follows). It’s also empty, as they’d expected (hoped) it to be, but now is not the time to take chances.

Still not breathing a word, Robin gestures toward the ornate trunk situated at the foot of the poster bed. Will catches on quick and moves over to the far side and leans down, grips the handles on his end. Robin mirrors him, on the near side, and together they lift, hoist with slightly startled groans at the surprising weight. It’s an awkward shuffle to the chamber doors but they manage, set the trunk down in front of the doors as a blockade and make sure the bar lock is firmly in place. It’s not the best solution, but it’ll have to do: the wardrobe would be better, with its height, and heavier weight, but Robin doubts they’d be able to move it without difficulty or making too much noise.

With a soft exhale, Robin turns his attention back to the room at large and settles his hands on his hips, taking a few moments to get a better, closer look at things. The light’s still very dim, against the night, with the lone candle flickering pitifully in the corner and the drapes blocking out most of the patchy moonlight, but his eyes are adjusting, a little at a time. Will makes his way to a desk, on the far side of the room, fingers plucking carefully at an array of books strewn about the surface.

For his part, Robin turns his attention to the wardrobe, reaches for the handle to open it before thinking better of it, and stepping round to the other side, closer to the queen’s private washroom. There, tucked away against the wall, is a full-length mirror, glass glistening within the ornate, golden frame. Robin breathes a little easier at the sight of it, heart picking up pace, but here he finds patience where he’d lacked it earlier. He’s careful, exceedingly so, in his perusal of the mirror, gloves hovering around the edges of the frame, just shy of touching.

It occurs to him, then, that he may have gotten in over his head a bit. “Will,” he murmurs, eyes fixated on the mirror. “C’mere, I need your help. You’ve had your fair share of experiences with looking glasses. How do I get this to… I dunno, open up?” 

“You say that like I’m some sort of expert,” Will says dryly, poking over more of the queen’s possessions now that he’s moved onto her vanity. “I wasn’t the one who opened up the portals, mate, I just sort of fell through them. And this is different: it’s not a portal, it’s a—”

“A what?” Robin prompts, only paying half attention as he tugs his gloves off and tucks them in his pockets.

“A mirror.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you,” Robin drawls, glancing sidelong at him.

“No, Robin, a mirror,” Will breathes, capturing Robin’s full attention as he reaches for the handle of something on the vanity. Slowly, delicately, Will lifts an intricately carved and impeccably clean hand mirror up for display, eyes half-wild as he turns to meet Robin’s gaze. “ _A magic mirror_.”

Robin wrinkles his nose, opens his mouth to argue — it seems much more likely, he’s about to say, that the queen would opt for something with a larger view — but… Will’s right, he realizes after half a moment of simply staring at the hand mirror. The glass almost… _shimmers_ , unnatural and mystifying and entirely independent of the candle’s light, and as quickly as Robin realizes why the queen would choose something so easily carried it also occurs to him that _this_ is their first stroke of real luck, all evening.

It is nothing short of fate, working on their side, that the queen left this behind tonight.

Half-mesmerized and a touch over-eager, Robin crosses the room again quickly to where Will is rooted to the spot, gaze fixed upon the mirrors’ swirling depths. Robin doesn’t reach for it, not yet, but he hovers too-close at Will’s shoulder, near-enchanted— 

“I’ll _thank you_ to put me down, if you don’t mind,” a voice snaps, high and irritated (a woman, Robin thinks, though he can’t quite be sure), and it takes them both a second too long to realize it’s coming from the mirror.

“ _Fucking_ hell!” Will gasps, startled to the point of fumbling, nearly dropping the mirror on the ground. Robin catches it halfway down, narrows his eyes at Will as he straightens back up and adjusts his grip on the mirror’s handle. “It talks!” Will defends, indignant. “I didn’t— I just figured it’d show you things, like a, I don’t fucking know, a seer or something, I didn’t know it could _speak_.”

“I’m hardly a seer,” the voice drawls. This time Robin’s breath does hitch a little, fingers tightening around the handle. “That’s not how Sight works, anyway— not that I’d expect a common thief to know that.”

“Is it— did that thing just insult me?” Will asks, aghast.

“I’m not a _thing_ ,” the voice— mirror— _woman_ says, sharp and clipped. Before either of them can even draw breath to respond, though, the glass shimmers, too-bright and near-blinding, before the head of a woman appears in its reflection and has them both practically swallowing their tongues at the sight of her. She’s… a vision, honestly: blonde hair fanning out in loose curls about her like flames licking the surface of the sea; lips stained dark, in the shades of plum, or a dark wine; eyes a crystalline blue, sharp, piercing, shadows dark along the curved edges, painted black. Gorgeous, really, damn near breathtaking, but there is fury there, burning just beneath the surface, and where Robin should be rightly terrified he finds that he is not.

Against the mirror’s menacing glare Robin can only think of Regina, and the spark she’d so long carried, before Robin’s pride tried to snuff it out.

Gods, he hopes she can forgive him.

“We’re not thieves,” Robin rushes to explain. He winces a bit, at the mirror— woman’s arched eyebrow, and pointedly ignores Will’s doubtful look. “Alright, well, we are, most days, but that’s not— we haven’t come here to steal anything, I swear.”

“Also a stupid part of the plan,” Will grumbles. “The coin we could make off of a handful of trinkets _alone_ would— ow, hey!” he protests when Robin elbows him in the stomach.

“Honest,” Robin promises, trying to keep the m— woman’s focus on him so Will doesn’t provoke her further. “I’ve only come to make a request.”

“Then I’d direct you to the throne room,” the woman says, already sounding tired of them. She turns away, face half hidden in shadow as she starts to disappear from view. “But the queen’s not here, she’s gone for—”

“— a fortnight, yes, we know.” Robin brings the mirror closer to him, stops, about a foot away from his face, and tries his very best not to panic. “I didn’t come to ask anything of her— I came to see you.”

The woman stops, just before she vanishes entirely, lingers there for a beat before finally (blessedly) turning back toward the mirror’s face. “Me?” she asks, and there is something careful, guarded in her voice. “Why?”

“We’re looking for someone,” Will explains, “and you do that whole… not-seer spying on people thing, or whatever you call it.”

The woman in the mirror merely levels him with a _look_. “You boys don’t have much experience with magic, do you?”

The twist in Robin’s gut tightens, gnaws at his core until he’s nearly squirming where he stands, but he swallows the discomfort down, and ignores Will’s incredulous _What d’you mean, boys?_ in reply. “I really don’t,” Robin breathes, and it’s a softer thing than he’d intended, far more honest than he’s really comfortable being at the moment. But John’s voice is like an echo in the back of his head — _you’ve kept those walls up long enough, Locksley, if you want her back, you have to bring them down_ — and so Robin pushes past the pain, feels like he’s blistering, from the inside out. “Honestly, I try to avoid it at all costs, if I can help it. I’ve seen it do more harm than good, and it always comes with a price.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, lips quirking curiously as she studies him, before she eventually replies. “Magic doesn’t do harm,” she says— informs him, really, like there’s not really room for debate. “People do.”

A beat of silence, and then Will’s looking over at him, sheer and utter bewilderment on his face. “...Is the fucking mirror arguing technicalities with you?”

“ _I’m not a mirror_ —”

“Will, how about you don’t antagonize what is possibly our last hope and go stand watch like you’re supposed to?” Robin sighs, nodding toward the balcony beyond the drapes. “Make sure a patrol doesn’t come round and see the rope?”

“Alright, alright, fine,” Will mutters, throwing his hands up and spinning abruptly on his heel. He stalks off toward the balcony, pokes his head through the edge of the drapes, muttering under his breath all the while, but he’s properly occupied, at least, which allows Robin to focus on the task at hand.

With a sigh, Robin turns his attention back to the woman in the mirror (the enchantress, really, she’s a witch of some sort, clearly, a sorceress and no less). “There’s someone,” he explains, trying to move the conversation along as quickly as he can without making too wrong a step. “A woman— she used to be part of our company. She left, a couple of months back, but I’m— _we’re_ worried that something may have happened to her.”

“And… what?” the wi— sorceress in the mirror prompts, dry and derisive and shit, this is not going well, what is he doing wrong, fuck, fuck, fuck. “You want me to help you stalk her?”

“Awfully hypocritical of you,” Will throws back, ducking his head inside briefly to throw a dark look her way, eyes shooting daggers across the space. “That’s all you do for the queen, isn’t it?”

“The queen,” the sorceress says, eyes narrowing at Will over Robin’s shoulder, “doesn’t give me a choice. I’ve no obligation to you.”

“Please,” Robin breathes, bringing the mirror closer just to keep Will out of her view. “She may very well be in danger, and even if she isn’t, the weather’s turned absolutely _ghastly_ this season. I only wish to— I at least need to see that she’s alright.” A beat, just long enough to swallow pride and morality down before he adds, “It’s magic I can live with, at the end of the day, whatever the cost might be.”

The sorceress softens around the edges, just a little, expression shifting into something altogether more… curious as her eyes study Robin’s face. “You’re in love with this girl.”

For all that the sorceress seems to be trapped on the other side of that glass, Robin feels very much as though her fingers have sifted right through the glass, sunk deep into his chest and reached for his ever-bleeding, still-beating heart, to rip out and lay bare.

(There’s a part of him, however small, that rises up in warning at the thought, reminds him of the carnage the queen has left behind, one village at a time, but Robin pushes the panic away into the corners of his mind and steadfastly chooses to ignore it.)

“I am,” he affirms, soft and low. He can feel Will’s eyes on his back but makes a point not to turn around. He’s caught her attention now, he can tell, and if she wants his heart laid bare as the price for giving him intel, it’s a price Robin will gladly pay a thousand times over. “If something’s gone wrong, and I haven’t exhausted every possibility to try and help her then…”

“You couldn’t live with yourself?” the sorceress guesses, and there’s that hint of derision back in her voice, like there’s nothing of note ( _nothing special_ , the back of his mind supplies, and it’s Regina’s voice, a menacing echo of _nothing, nothing, nothing_ ) to make him worth her time.

“I couldn’t,” Robin agrees, pushes past the sorceress’ knowing _hmm_ in reply. “But I love her, and she deserves far more than I’ve ever given her— far more than I probably ever could. If she’s in trouble then I’m to blame— at least in part. I just need a _chance_ to make things right,” he whispers, and it’s too earnest, full of yearning, longing and he resolutely _does. not. care._ “That’s all I’m asking of you, I swear.”

It’s another long, long moment while the sorceress simply observes him, one that has Robin toeing the line between practiced patience and desperate urgency, but he’s rewarded, in the end, for not pushing her too far too fast. For the first time in weeks, he thinks he may really _believe_ that he’s changed for the better, since Regina’s departure.

Gods, he hopes she gives him a second chance.

“Refreshing as your honesty is,” the sorceress says, “I’m not much one for groveling.” Robin hears Will’s sharp intake of breath at that and glances darkly over his shoulder, mouths _shut it_ with all the pent up frustration he can muster. When he turns back to the mirror, though, the sorceress is drawing in a deep breath and shaking out her hair, almost like she’s trying to stand up straight (which begs the question _does she have a body_ , but that’s a curiosity that may have to go unsatisfied). “Alright,” she says — commands, really, high and clear as her eyes slip shut. “Ask it of me properly. Who is it you want me to show you?”

Hope blossoms anew, _burns_ fresh and fierce in his chest, and Robin breathes a little easier at her acquiescence. “I’d like to see the bandit Regina,” he requests, only a touch awkward, and then hastily adds, “please.”

The sorceress falters, eyes blinking open as incredulity settles into every last line of her face. “You’re joking, right?” she deadpans, eyebrow arching rather perfectly. “This is some sort of, what, test? A way for the queen to see if she needs to inflict another damning spell on me, just to make sure I’m loyal to only her?”

All of the breath leaves Robin at once, shoulders sagging while he tries to wrap his head around the accusation (tries to cope with apparent failure and no, no, fuck, he cannot fail Regina now).

Unsurprisingly, Will does not seem to share the same struggle Robin has with speech at the moment. “For a mirror, you’re sort of paranoid, has anyone ever told you that?” he muses, and it’s almost flippant, not at all helpful, but Robin is out of energy to reprimand him.

The sorceress’ eyes cloud dark, blue shadowed by bruises of black and _gods_ , Robin thinks, if looks could kill… “I have a _name_ , you know.”

“Robin,” he says hastily, name tumbling from his lips far, far past the time for it. “My name— it’s Robin.”

She eyes him warily for a moment before something sparks, shifts in her eyes, and perhaps it’s a trick of light, or glass, but Robin swears he sees the phantom twitch of a smile. “Robin,” she repeats, and there’s a touch of amusement in her voice that he’s certain he doesn’t imagine. “As in Robin Hood.” He nods, hope a gentle twinge in chest, and after a beat the sorceress chuckles, low and under her breath. “I’ll be damned.”

There’s something in that, Robin thinks, but he hardly has time to dwell on it before Will’s cutting in again, impatient to the last. “Come on, Robin, let’s pack it in,” he sighs, peeking around the curtain again to peer out into the courtyard beneath the balcony. “I doubt we’ve much time left before the shift change. Nottingham, I can handle, but I’ve really no desire to be caught out by any of the queen’s guard. Let’s—”

“Maleficent,” the sorceress interjects abruptly, ignoring Will entirely as she gives Robin a once-over again. “Not that your little accomplice over there cares.”

Again, Will speaks before Robin has the chance, but he’s topical still, at least, which may yet be of service, and not entirely damning. “Hang on,” he says, releasing the drapes and striding over to them in four long steps. “Maleficent? As in, _the dragon_ , Maleficent? The one Prince James fought and killed, for his future bride?”

The early tinge of amusement makes its way up to her eyes now, holds even when she turns her gaze on Will. “Do I look dead to you?” she drawls. Will opens his mouth, then closes it, shifts his gaze to Robin with an expression of utmost bewilderment. “That was the original plan, I believe, yes,” Maleficent sighs, and she’s… indulging him, Robin realizes, perhaps to match his own confession, not moments ago. “Then he got the idea that I’d make a much better… _pet_ ,” she says, practically _spits_ the word, “than my head would a trophy in the throne room. Snow couldn’t be bothered to take care of me.”

“So… _this_ was her resolution then?” Robin guesses, gaze sweeping over the mirror in his hands until his stomach twists in disgust. “Trap you in here, instead? Force you to do her bidding?”

“Well I’m certainly not in here by _choice_ ,” she snaps, but it lacks the distinct heat of her earlier ire. She looks… uncomfortable, at her own admission, and it occurs to Robin then that perhaps she hasn’t written them off entirely quite yet.

“You have one now,” Robin murmurs, encouraged by the way her expression softens, just slightly. “None of us have any love for the queen, obviously, but we’re not aiming to use you against her. I _just_... want to find Regina. Please,” he says, a strained, desperate thing. A beat, and then, barely above a whisper, “You’re my last hope.”

Another moment, far too long (they are running out of time), another silent study of him (he is a phantom, a shell of a person without his heart and Maleficent can see right through him), and then Maleficent disappears, back into the depths of the mirror.

Robin’s eyes sting, vision blurring with unshed tears while he tries, struggles, fails to catch his breath, but it’s only half a moment, that his ache swells in the hollow of his chest, before Will is nuding his arm in earnest. “Robin, look.” He blinks to bring himself back into focus, sniffs slightly to regain his composure, and the sight that greets him has ache receding in his chest, as quickly as it had formed and flooded.

Maleficent’s still gone, but in her place is not the same swirling, shimmering mist beneath the glass from before. Light flickers, fades, gives way to pure white, and it’s not until they’ve been squinting at it for half a moment that Robin realizes it’s moving. That’s… snow. That’s… the storm, picking up in earnest outside, and the flurries in the reflection swirl, settle with wind they cannot hear.

And then the snow parts, like lifting a veil from the vision she’s granted, and there, curled up against what looks like a tree, is the place Robin’s heart resides.

 _Regina_.

She’s bundled up considerably — gloves pulled on; scarf wrapped round her neck; cloak pulled tight around her body— but it’s doing little to shelter her from the storm. The cloak was nearing threadbare, before she left; he can’t imagine it’s doing much for her now, beyond maybe keeping her ears from being fully exposed to the elements. And she’s— gods, she’s shivering something _awful_ , clearly fucking _freezing_ (and _what good is evading capture if we end up freezing to death_ fuck fuck fuck, she was right, he’s never wanted her to be wrong more).

Her whole body convulses suddenly, chest heaving beneath the cloak, and Robin does not need the vision to grant him sound to know that sick has settled deep within her lungs.

Fucking shit.

He’s sinking down onto the foot of the bed without a second thought, grip slackening on the mirror’s handle. “She’s _sick_ ,” he says, thick and wet and oh, oh, there the tears are then, fucking grand.

“She’s alive,” Will counters, sounding almost kind, and gods, the world is fucked if Will Scarlet is the epitome of optimism right now.

“She could be _dying_ , Will,” Robin chokes out, unable to tear his eyes away from the vision. “Look at her: she’s hardly any color in her face, she’s probably lost more than half a stone —“

“Where is she?” Will asks sharply, and it takes Robin a moment, to catch his breath through tears, and to realize Will is talking to Maleficent. “That forest, where is it?”

The vision flickers, fades until it vanishes entirely, pulling a gasped _No!_ out of Robin even as Maleficent’s face reappears in the glass. “I don’t know,” she says. “This magic doesn’t work like that. It only shows where someone is when you ask, it doesn’t give an exact location or a map.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Will mutters darkly, but Robin can hear it in his voice, see it even through the blur of his own tears: Will is afraid for her, too. “That’s just great, that’s bloody perfect, that’s—” A whistle pierces the air, melodic and distinctive, and all three of them glance toward the balcony. “That’s our cue,” he sighs, glancing sidelong at Robin. “Guards rotate positions for the next shift in five minutes. We need to leave.”

Robin looks back down at the mirror, teeth digging into his lip at the thought of his love suffering (his fault, his fault, this is all his fucking fault, _damn it_ ). He knows— he _knows_ he won’t find any more answers here, Maleficent cannot help him more than she’s already tried, but Robin cannot bring himself to move, hands trembling around the mirror’s edges.

(It’s the first time he’s seen her in _months_ , and Robin is loathe to even let the mere memory of her go, now.)

“Robin,” Will prompts, settling a gentle hand at Robin’s shoulder. “C’mon, mate, we’ve got to get a move on. There’s nothing left for us here, and we can’t find her if we end up getting caught, much less try to help her.”

 _If we end up getting caught_ is like a sharp smack to the face, a reminder of just how badly he’s cocked this all up. Will realizes, too late, his mistake, inhales sharply with what Robin knows is an apology ready on his tongue, but Robin shakes his head and forces himself to his feet. “Forget it,” he murmurs, brushing roughly at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Move the trunk back where it belongs. I’ve got this — her.” He can see, out of the corner of his eye, the hesitation on Will’s face, like he wants to protest, but Robin shrugs out of his touch and makes his way back to the vanity without another word.

Maleficent’s still hovering, shimmering in the mirror’s face, regarding him carefully. Robin forces himself to meet her eyes one last time. “Thank you,” he sniffs, voice rough, raw around the edges. And it’s Regina again, always an echo in the back of his mind, teasing him for _the manners your mother instilled in you_ and he can do nothing for her now, he’s waited too long.

The very center of him shifts, spins on its axis while he tries desperately not to dwell on it, not now, not until he’s gotten the men out of harm’s way. Perhaps the queen will set Maleficent free with Regina gone — there would be little use for her anymore — and his stomach turns at his own horrid betrayal, bile rising up in his throat and his hands are shaking as he tries to set the mirror back down atop the vanity, nearly drops it (throws it, he’s angry, he’s an idiot, Regina always said he was a fucking idiot) as the handle starts to slip out of his grasp— 

“Wait,” Will says, hand suddenly wrapped around Robin’s forearm to keep him from setting the mirror down. “That might not be… We can’t leave it— her here.”

Robin’s brow wrinkles in confusion. “What?”

Will opens his mouth and shuts it, chews his lip as his gaze shifts down to Maleficent, contemplating. “She knows who we are— knows who _you_ are, mate,” Will murmurs. “What if she tells the queen we’ve been here, or what we asked? She’s a liability.”

“You can’t be serious,” Robin says dully. “You heard her, Will, she despises the queen. She wouldn’t offer up intel freely to aid the queen’s quest.”

“That’s… my point,” Will says, and it’s the kindest he’s been toward Maleficent since they’d discovered her. “She might not be able to help it.”

“He’s right, you know.”

In unison, they both turn their gaze upon the mirror. “I wouldn’t volunteer the information,” Maleficent says, and it’s… a promise, Robin realizes, a kindness he’s very much aware she does not have to extend. “But if she asks—”

“—you’d be compelled to tell her,” Robin surmises. “That’s what you meant, when you mentioned the spell.”

“She doesn’t know about you, you know,” Maleficent says. “The queen— she knows you aided Regina, once, but she doesn’t know Regina’s kept your company. All the times she’s asked to see her, the last couple of years, she’s always appeared alone. That’s not luck, boys, that’s fate, on her side. If you leave me here, you risk losing your advantage.”

All at once, their meaning becomes clear.

“Hang on,” Will says, and there’s an undertone of… amusement in his voice, and perhaps pride. “Are you… _encouraging_ us to kidnap you?”

“I’d hardly call it a kidnapping,” Maleficent says, the barest hint of a laugh in her voice.

If Robin weren’t so fucking consumed, gutted with worry for Regina, he thinks he’d laugh, too.

This is fucking mad.

“We didn’t come here with the intention to steal anything,” Robin argues, but it’s weak; his heart is not in it.

“Good intentions are what got your girl into this mess in the first place,” Maleficent dismisses. “Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing for the right reasons. You of all people should know that, Robin Hood.”

At that, Robin _does_ laugh, low and wet and entirely a product of being at the end of his rope (and their minutes are dwindling, they need to get out of here). “Well then,” he sighs, adjusting his grip on the mirror’s handle so she’s more secure, in his hands, “at the very least I can promise not to ask anything else of you, while you’re in our care.”

“That’s not a promise you can keep,” she says, but her whole expression shifts into something altogether more… approving.

Well there’s that, at least.

Another whistle sounds from beyond the drapes, higher this time, and Will releases his grip on Robin’s arm. “Two minutes,” he reminds Robin needlessly. “We’ll be cutting it close, once we’re back down in the courtyard.”

Robin nods, reaches for a silk scarf off of the vanity to wrap the mirror in before depositing it in his quiver, but Maleficent stops him before he can cover the glass. “Wait,” she commands, halting his movement. “There’s — the antechamber. There’s something you’ll need, in the antechamber.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Will hisses, already halfway across the room. “We’re well past the point of petty theft here, I just want to fucking make it out of here with all my body parts intact, thanks.”

“You will,” Maleficent assures him. “I can help you get around the guards on your way out, but you _need_ to do something about this. All of your trouble will be for naught, otherwise.”

Robin narrows his eyes, heart skipping a beat in his chest. “What d’you mean?”

“Go in there,” she urges, “and see.”

Robin’s gaze darts between the balcony and the inner chamber’s barred door and he hesitates, just for a split second, before moving away from the balcony and ignoring Will’s indignant _Oi, where the fuck d’you think you’re going, Robin, get back here, bloody fucking hell_. Carefully, he tucks the mirror into his belt, grimaces a little at the weight of the crossbar as he pulls it from the brackets. He can’t quite help the dull _thunk_ the crossbar makes when he sets it on the floor, but there’s no voices, no footsteps on the other side, so it’s with very little hesitation left that Robin reaches for the ornate handle, and pulls the door open.

Candelabras line the walls in a circle of shimmering brass, candles lit and bathing the chamber in a soft yellow-orange glow, against the night. In the center of the antechamber sits a small table, cluttered with parchment, books and various bottles, jars. Next to it is an overlarge cauldron, fire crackling softly beneath it to keep a low, consistent heat (more magic, he figures, though this is less surprising). He can’t quite see in it, from this far away, but he can certainly _hear_ it, liquid bubbling, popping and spitting as it sits, stews and brews.

(Off the right there’s an archway, grand and imposing, and out of the corner of his eye Robin sees a flicker of light, red and glowing— _feels_ the pulse ripple its way into his veins and send a shiver around his heart.)

Slowly, Robin crosses the room toward the center, careful to keep his steps light lest his boots make too much noise against the stone (they’re out of time, they’ve taken too long, the guards are already on the move). The candlelight reflects off of the cauldron’s contents, a crystalline blue flashing against his eyes (his hand goes to the mirror at his hip, to make sure she’s safe, and secure). The smell grows stronger with each step he grows nearer— a crisp, fresh thing, like the wake of a waterfall ( _Regina, Regina, Regina_ , and Robin’s heart thunders at the base of his throat).

He spares a cursory glance at the cauldron’s contents once he’s nearly upon it, but it’s the table he turns his attention to— to the book at the top of the pile, opened to page twenty-three. He recognizes it as elvish (his upbringing is good for some things, at least) but that’s as far as his comprehension goes. His core coils, twists with something not unlike dread, and he doesn’t bother pulling the mirror from his belt to address Maleficent. “What manner of potion is the queen brewing?”

“One that gives her an advantage— more than I can give her,” Maleficent says, voice a bit muffled against his tunic. “It can do what I can’t.”

“And this fucking swill is worth risking our necks for?” Will mutters, coming up alongside him.

“If you want to save the skin of your precious little bandit?” Maleficent counters. “Yes.”

“What would you have us do?” Robin murmurs, fingers flexing, fidgeting in anxious anticipation.

“Rip that page out of the book, and then do what you do best: steal the thing that holds the most value,” she instructs, “from someone who doesn’t deserve it.”


	2. Chapter 2

_The sun hasn’t quite risen yet in this part of the willow forest — the light peeking through the makeshift covering of the hollow is still a soft gray-white — but it’s enough, this early summer morning, to catch, play against Regina’s features, and start Robin’s day off with a smile._

_Gods, how he loves her._

_The gentle graze of his fingertips against her collarbone is what wakes her, has her nose scrunching and her lips twisting into a smile as she fights back a yawn. “Tickles,” she mumbles. Robin replaces his fingers with his lips, brushes a trail of kisses up along her neck, teeth nipping at her ear. “‘s still early,” she grumbles, but her voice lacks protest, grows thin with heat._

_“You know,” he murmurs, sliding a hand across the blanket along her belly to squeeze affectionately at her waist, “I wouldn’t feel nearly so pressed to make the most of our time alone if we had more of it. Luckily, there’s a very simple solution to all this.”_

_“Really?” she drawls, voice low and thick with sleep as she rubs idly at his arm. “And what is that?”_

_He smiles into the kiss he presses against her crown, moves down to drop another to the corner of her mouth before pulling back. Eyes half-lidded and smile a little crooked, Regina blinks up at him rather sleepily and Robin takes a moment to simply… drink in her, breath, beauty and all. Her hair’s settled a bit, not quite so mussed as it was last night, when he’d tugged her braid loose and carded his fingers through her long locks. The waves aren’t as stiff, pronounced: they cascade and curl across the width of her too-thin pillow. Yesterday’s little jaunt along the southwest border is evident on her face, skin sun-kissed and smattered with fresh freckles._

_Regina reaches up, sinks her fingers into his hair, and the smile that blossoms, full and bright and warm is near-blinding in all of its brilliant beauty. She is stunning, at her most bare, and Robin wants nothing more than to open his eyes to her, each dawn, in lieu of the elusive dreams he holds most precious and dear._

_“You’ve already a place among us,” he says, a gentle, yearning thing. “Come back with me, to Sherwood. Stay.”_

_She blinks, once, twice, smile softening around the edges, and there’s a pretty flush that colors her cheeks as she wets her lips before offering up a reply. “You want — you want me to come live with you?”_

_His stomach twists, pleasant and hot at the thought, has him slotting a leg between hers and curling in close, lips hovering, grazing against her own. “I want you,” he mumbles into her mouth, encouraged by the way she arches slightly against him, breath hitching in her chest, “always.”_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She’s just finished tying the rope off when she catches a flutter of movement out of the corner of her eye. She half-glances over beyond the well — it’s a bird, most likely, or a squirrel — but ends up doing a double-take, eyes narrowing slightly to discern something, anything in the snowy dusk. Carefully, Red takes a step around the well, fingertips falling from the now full bucket. Whatever it is, it’s definitely bigger than a woodland creature. Tension swells, traps her breath in her chest and has her heart hammering against her sternum. Blood races against her bones, _predator, predator_ a growl in the back of her throat that’s silenced before it can ever get out and the wolf is _ready_ at the first threat of danger (at _nothing_ , Red scolds the wolf, _stop overreacting just because you want out_ ), chomping at the bit and clawing, _clawing_ at her insides, a piercing drag on the underside of her skin, out, _out, outoutout_ — 

Slowly, Red reaches up, fingertips curling around the edges of armor stained red, and pulls her hood back, down and away.

Even without a mirror, she knows her eyes are beginning to glow.

( _A little snow is nothing_ , the wolf coaxes, and there is heat, along the back of Red’s neck. _We could run, just for the night, just for an hour, she’d never have to know, just because she can’t anymore doesn’t mean we should —_ )

It’s not a bear, Red realizes, heart pushing hard against her sternum as she takes a few steps forward (and the wolf cowers, whimpers to no avail). This — whatever this is, it’s hardly any bigger than she is, if that. With each step Red resurfaces, the ball of tension in her chest dissipating as quickly as it has formed.

It’s only when she’s a good ten paces or so away that she’s finally able to make out any details. Not fur, but cloth, threadbare and worn (that must’ve been what caught her eye before, in the wake of the wind). The snow isn’t disturbed anywhere around it, no tracks or bootprints trailing in from the forest, or away from their barn. There’s no way for her to really figure out _where_ , exactly, it came from; whatever it is, it’s been here for a while. Red wrinkles her nose, wolf sniffing, trying to get a whiff of something, anything that might give away what’s underneath the cloth — cloak, it’s a cloak, and where the wolf fails her, Red’s eyes, brown and dim, do not.

That’s a bow, propped up against the tree.

That’s a _person_.

She stops, a few feet away, bites her lip for a second before clearing her throat and venturing, “Hello?” Silence, against the whistle of wind and soft crunch of snow as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and Red raises her voice slightly, tries again. “Hello? Are you — are you lost?” Nothing, not even a rustle, and it’s the silence, against the wolf’s ears, that has her pressing forward again.

Red circles half the tree — it’s hard to tell, exactly, which direction the person is facing, wrapped up in their cloak as they are — before she stops again, eyes roving over the small form curled up against the trunk. Not a child, too big for a child, but the person seems even smaller now that she’s up close. She tries again — _hello, can you hear me?_ — to no avail, so it’s with less trepidation than before that Red takes the last few steps toward the stranger, and kneels down in the snow.

Gently, she reaches out a gloved hand and pulls the hood of the cloak away just enough to get a better look at the person’s face. The waning light illuminates little: skin pale, patched with pink, against the bitter cold; hair dark, woven together into a braid over one shoulder; scarf thick, dark and green around the woman’s neck, hugging the curve of her jaw; eyes closed, against the world — asleep, as the night approaches.

No, not asleep. Unconscious.

That part becomes more obvious when Red starts to pull her hand away and she accidentally brushes her hand against the woman’s brow. The woman doesn’t wake even at the slightest touch, doesn’t even _startle_ , and it’s only when she’s withdrawn her hand fully that Red notices the way the woman’s chest rises and falls with breath. Quick, too short, sharp and shallow and muffled behind the scarf, and there’s something altogether _hollow_ in the sound that has the same tension swelling in Red’s chest.

Something is wrong.

It takes surprisingly little, in the end, for Red to push herself to her feet. Still, she hesitates, eyes lingering on the woman curled up between the treeline and their well, tension stretched thin, pulled taut, like a string. The woman needs help — needs Granny, really, and her practiced hand with herbs and oils — but Red is a little loathe to leave her here on her own. There’s so much that could happen in the space of a few minutes: the woman could wake, and leave, or someone else could happen by ( _not likely_ , the back of her mind supplies, but the woman had to come from _somewhere_ , and the wolf’s growl at the base of her throat hasn’t gone away, not entirely). What if — 

“I’ll be back,” Red says, knowing it’s highly unlikely the woman’s heard her, but it makes Red feel better, at least a little.

Quickly she makes her way back to the well, picks up the now-full bucket with minimal finesse and nearly trips in her haste to get back to the cottage. She has to force herself to slow down, take smaller, steadier steps through the snow just so the water won’t slosh about and spill over the edge of the bucket. Each step she sinks into the too-rapidly rising snow is like the pinpricks of needles against her heart, each a painful twinge in her chest as the tension expands, slithers its way down into her core.

When she finally pushes the front door of the cottage open and half-stumbles across the threshold, Granny is already settled into her rocking chair for the evening, set about stoking the fire. “Granny,” Red says, breathless and a little wild as she sets the bucket down on the table with a too-loud _thunk_. “There’s someone out there.”

“Oh come on now, girl, I’m really in no mood to entertain one of your _guests_ , especially if it’s that boy,” Granny grumbles, glancing sidelong at where Red’s left the door open. “Close the door, you’re letting all the heat out.”

“ _No_ ,” Red implores, obliging the request but keeping her hand on the latch, “there’s someone out by the well — a woman. I think she must’ve gotten lost when the storm started.”

“You _think_?” Granny says, a half-question at best, and she’s got that look on her face, the one that’s every bit a last-warning against being trifled with. “Did you ask?”

“There was no point,” Red says, unable to keep the edge out of her voice. “She wouldn’t wake up.”

Granny inhales sharply and slowly sets the fire iron down. “Is she —“

“She’s alive,” Red says, “but something’s wrong. I think — I think she might be sick or something.”

For a minute Granny doesn’t say anything, but then Red watches her eyes shift, fall to where Red’s hand is still curled around the door handle. Red runs her thumb over the latch, impatient, but finally Granny sighs, leans back in her chair, and reaches out for her crossbow. “Show me.”

The tension in Red’s chest gives way to a brief flare of annoyance — Red is careful but Granny is always over-prepared to the point of paranoia — but she doesn’t dwell on it. Can’t dwell on it, really, because it takes Granny a few minutes to slip back into her boots, fasten up her cloak and duck into the back room for a scarf. Each second that ticks by is another that leaves holes in Red’s chest, heart leaving bloodstains against her sternum, and by the time Granny’s meeting her at the front door Red’s already yanked it back open.

“Come on,” Red urges, reaching for her hand and tugging her across the threshold. “I don’t know how long she’s been out there but the storm is getting worse.”

“And yet you’re dragging me out in it,” Granny mumbles, but she follows Red all the same, pulls the door shut behind them and releases Red’s hand. “Go on,” she says, nodding in the direction of the well and adjusting the crossbow in her hands. “I’ll bring up the rear.” At that Red _does_ let out a slight _tsk_ of annoyance and rolls her eyes, but it’s not worth the fight, she decides.

They’ve already lost time.

The trek back to the well takes longer this time, snowfall picking up pace and forcing Red to gather up the ends of her cloak as she trudges forward. Granny stays a good five feet behind her, bow lax but still ready. It’s nearly nightfall, and the light spilling from their windows only reaches so far, so Red slows her gait, glances over her shoulder every few steps and makes sure Granny can see her well enough to keep up.

When they reach the well, the ball of tension in Red’s chest shrinks down into something smaller at the sight of the woman still curled up against the tree. She spares one last glance back to ensure she hasn’t lost Granny before rushing forward and sinking to her knees once more. The snow bites at her skin through her trousers with a second soaking, has her gritting her teeth against it and ignoring the wolf’s pointed, coercive whimper of _you’d be so much warmer if you’d just_ — 

She’s stripping her gloves off without a second thought, burn in her chest equal parts fear and defiance. The wind lashes against her hands, harsh and stinging, but it’s nothing, she thinks, compared to just how cold she thinks this woman must be. An idle touch against the woman’s shirt, her trousers, even her boots is like touching ice, the embodiment of _cold_ without feeling. It’s not particularly encouraging, has the burn in Red’s chest licking at her throat in sympathy.

Granny arrives, hovers a few feet away just as Red’s dipping her fingers beneath the woman’s cloak again. “She’s _freezing_ ,” Red murmurs, shuffling forward on her knees.

“Push back the cloak,” Granny instructs, still standing, still clutching carefully at her crossbow. “Move that scarf. Let me see her face.” Red does as she’s asked, albeit a little reluctantly — the woman’s frosty enough, this isn’t exactly going to help — and tries to keep the scarf wrapped around the woman’s neck for warmth. The woman’s lips are dry, chapped, like she hasn’t had a drop to drink in _days_. Red sucks in a breath at the sight, sharp and painful as it lances through her.

And then she hears Granny echo it, hears the muttered _I’ll be damned_ she’s sure was not meant for her ears, and when Red turns to look up at her she’s surprised, honestly, to see the way Granny’s face has softened. “Granny?”

She’s quiet for a second, Granny, brow knit as she studies the woman, and she surprises Red further when she too, kneels down in the snow and sets her crossbow aside. Her teeth bite, tug and pull at the tip of one of the fingers of her glove, loosen it enough to wiggle her hand loose. Red shifts on the ground to give Granny more room, and this time Granny is the one to reach for the woman, press the back of her hand gentle but firm to the woman’s forehead. “Fever’s setting in.”

Red chews at her lower lip, hand settling on the woman’s knee. The woman’s breathing is louder now that she’s not quite so wrapped up. Still quick, and brief, shallow on the intake, but that same, sickening hollow quality from before twists into a wet wheezing. She sounds _sick_ , really, really sick, each breath strained, and each rattle of barely-there breath in her lungs is an infinite echo against the wolf’s ears. “Granny—”

“Can you carry her?” Granny asks suddenly, leaning back and reaching for her crossbow again. “Inside, can you carry her inside?”

Red softens into a half-smile, heart skipping a beat with affection. She gives the woman a quick once-over before nodding. “I think so,” she says. “She doesn’t look all that heavy.”

“No,” Granny murmurs, groaning as she pushes herself to her feet, “she doesn’t, does she?”

Red hears the words Granny leaves unsaid, and she may not be all that off the mark, Red thinks when her hands dip beneath the woman’s cloak to tug the woman into her arms. Her tunic is a little too loose, just below her breasts, and when Red goes to rise her legs shake far less than she’d been anticipating given the extra weight. She draws in a breath as the woman’s head comes to rest against her shoulder (still, she won’t wake, _why_ won’t she wake, this is _bad_ , shit, shit, shit), another, and another until Red leans into the wolf at last, and draws upon its strength.

Her eyes glow all the way back to the cottage.

“In the back room,” Granny instructs once they’re back in the warmth of the cottage. “Put her on the bed, see if you can wake her long enough to change her clothes. _Slowly_ ,” she adds sharply, setting the woman’s things — bow, quiver, bag — down on the table next to the bucket of water Red brought in earlier. “Start with her tunic — leave her boots and gloves for last. I’ll put a pot of water over the fire.”

The woman feels heavier in her arms, now that they’re out of the cold snow, not by much, but enough that by the time Red deposits her down on the bed the wolf is damn near panting, huffing for breath. It’s closer to the surface than it has been all night, restless and racing beneath her skin now that she’s tapped into its power. She takes the extra minute or two to come back to center, blinks until she feels the burning glow in her eyes start to dim, recede: she doesn’t want to frighten this poor woman, after all.

And, well. She doesn’t exactly want to follow in her father’s tracks.

Once she’s managed to get the wolf to heel, Red settles on the bed next to the woman and reaches for the fastening of her cloak. She indulges, just for a second, and mimics Granny’s gesture from earlier, pressing a hand against the woman’s forehead and shit. _Shit_. Definitely a fever, and growing worse by the minute, if the way the woman’s started to shiver is any indication.

“Hey,” Red prompts, shaking the woman’s shoulder a little. “Can you hear me?” No response; Red jostles her a touch more and leans in closer. “Hey, I need you to wake up, okay? You need to get out of these wet clothes and into something dry.” A soft moan spills from the woman’s lips as she curls in on herself, teeth clacking as her chin trembles and she shakes, shakes, shakes apart at the seams. “Hey,” Red tries one more time, softer than before. “I know, you’re freezing, but I can help you if you just—” She sighs, brow wrinkling as she thinks for a minute before scooting closer. “You have to wake up,” she urges, reaching out a hand to brush a few stray locks away from the woman’s face. “I need to — _ow_!”

Lightning fast, the woman’s hand is wrapped around Red’s wrist and gripping _tight_ , pulling a pained hiss out of Red in counterpart to the woman’s startled gasp. “Ow, hey, stop,” Red mutters, trying, unsuccessfully, to pull out of this woman’s grasp, _wow_ , she’s strong, _how_ is she this strong right now? “I was only trying to—”

“Who are you?” the woman rasps, voice low, _dangerous_ and there is _fire_ in her eyes, fire, and fear, and it’s taking all of her energy, Red realizes, to stay focused enough to fight. “Where have you taken me? What do you—”

“Easy,” Granny says as she enters the room. Red relaxes a little at the sound of her voice, forces the wolf down and away and tries not to struggle against the woman’s hold. “You’re among friends here, girl.”

The woman’s eyes narrow, brow knitting in confusion as her eyes dart between them. “I don’t know you, how—”

“You’re in the North,” Granny says, like that’s supposed to be an explanation. “The Outskirts. I can’t speak for the rest of the village but—”

Instantly, the woman releases her hold on Red’s wrist, struggles to sit up and ends up scrambling up the bed toward the headboard, fear pushing forward in her eyes. “North?” she echoes, voice cracking a little as her eyes dart between them. “That’s — _please_ ,” she breathes, arm wrapping around her middle. “Please, just let me — I can go. I can head south or — or west, even, if you just let me leave. I promise, I’ll keep out of sight, no one else has to know I was here —”

“Regina,” Granny cuts in, and where did _that_ come from, how did Granny know her name? Red watches the woman’s eyes go wide, hears the way her breath hitches around a gasp before giving way to a cough that she tries (fails) to muffle. “Breathe easy, girl. I don’t want her here any more than you do.”

“Her?” Red asks, half-glancing in Granny’s direction. “Who—”

“They’re everywhere,” the woman — Regina whispers, coughs again and clutches at her side, expression pained. “The posters — she’s got them up this far out?”

“No,” Granny says, taking another step into the room, “but you and I both know she doesn’t need those anymore. At least half of Misthaven knows who you are, girl.”

The pieces start to settle, click together in Red’s mind — Regina is being hunted, Regina is afraid of being caught and there are _posters_ , oh, oh. “Regina,” Red says, turning to face her fully again as clarity dawns upon her. “The _bandit_ , Regina.”

It’s as good as if Red had struck her, the words landing like lashes as Regina flinches, curls away from her. Confused and more than a little curious, the wolf has Red’s head tilting, just slightly, in observation. “Please,” Regina begs, voice thick and rough around the edges and her breath comes more shallow again, sickness settling back into her lungs now that the shock’s worn off a bit. “Please, I’m—” Another cough, this one worse still, and the rest of her plea is lost to it, drowned in the depths of her lungs. The fit has her whole body practically convulsing, a blanket of tremors around the shivers against the cold. Each cough is wet, hoarse, hollow and drug up from down deep, and each leaves her gasping for air more than the last.

“You’re _sick_ ,” Granny bites out (and her wolf is there too, way down at the very base of her throat, has Red’s own shrinking back down beneath). “You are sick, and it is snowing, and I am not about to let a young thing like you back out into a blizzard in this state, especially if you have nowhere else to go.” There’s a flicker of something across Regina’s face as her coughs start to taper off, but any words she tries to force out are trapped in the rougher edges.

And Granny, well. Nine times out of ten, Granny usually comes out of an argument on the winning side. Under most circumstances, it’s kind of annoying (usually because the majority of her arguments are with Red, and Red doesn’t particularly like losing either, a thousand times over). Tonight, though, Red is grateful for her grandmother’s obscene obstinacy: without it, the bandit Regina may not survive the night.

“You’ve nowhere else to go,” Granny says again, and it’s a question that doesn’t require an answer. Regina’s hand flexes fitfully at her side, pain evident in every line of her body, and somewhere inside the wolf can hear Regina’s heartbeat start to flutter in an attempt to come back to rest. The panic is receding — the wolf can sense it, in smell and sound, and Red feels it dissipate, in her chest — but Regina still looks wary even as her breath comes a little easier.

“Let us help you,” Granny offers — insists, really, because she is nothing if not persistent, and used to getting her way.

Regina’s losing focus, what little energy she had gone, and Red can see the way her eyes grow fuzzy, clouded as she looks between them again. “Just — just until morning,” she forces out, teeth chattering again and shit, _shit_ , they really need to get her warm. “Or the storm lets up. I don’t — I should — _mm_.” The slight noise of discontent slips past her lips as her eyes slip shut, face flushing crimson now, instead of pink. “Everything’s a circle,” she mumbles. “Like a window with no doors.”

Red arches an eyebrow over at Granny, who just shakes her head. “Fever,” Granny murmurs, and there’s fear in her eyes now, too. “Get her changed, give her some water. I’ll come back with the oils once the tea’s done.”

Regina’s started to sway a little in place when Red turns back to her, eyes still closed and shoulders slumping as she struggles to stay upright. “Hey,” Red prompts, giving Regina’s hand a squeeze until her eyes flutter open again. “We need to get you out of these clothes, into something dry. Can you — will you let me help you?”

There’s something… warm, and almost kind in the way Regina looks at her, but it’s still fuzzy, unfocused, and even as she nods Red can tell the fever is squeezing its way through her mind, trying to distort reality. So Red offers her a small smile and shifts closer, reaching out for the scarf still wrapped around Regina’s neck, and it’s here, with the last vestiges of real cognizance she has, that Regina responds the most. “Don’t,” she says, voice barely there. Her hand reaches up, clumsily clutches at the edges of the scarf and tries (fails) to grip tight. “‘s all I have left of— I can’t lose it.”

“You won’t,” Red assures her. “We’ll keep it with the rest of your things. Right now we have to get you warm.”

It takes another minute of coaxing, but eventually Red manages to pry Regina’s fingers away from the scarf in order to unfurl it and set it aside. It’s not until Red’s halfway done undoing ties and buttons on Regina’s tunic that Regina offers up a belated reply. “‘s cold,” she murmurs unnecessarily. “It’s so damn cold, I told them it would be, he wouldn’t listen—”

“Arms up,” Red instructs, tapping at Regina’s elbows. Regina blinks a little, clearly jarred from being interrupted, but she does as she’s asked, and lifts her arms up… about halfway, before her strength gives out, and they’re just sort of hanging there awkwardly in mid-air. With a sigh Red start to shift the tunic up her torso, shifting it this way and that until she can pull it up and over Regina’s head, arms. Her knuckles brush along the linen of Regina’s shirt, graze against her sides — her _ribs_ and Red frowns, stomach twisting uncomfortably. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I… don’t know,” Regina admits, and through the haze in her eyes there’s a touch of something altogether… sad.

There’s more there, Red can tell, but now’s not the time to ask. “I’ll have Granny warm up some of the extra stew for you.” Regina nods, an idle thing at best, and the wolf allows a flash of hot anger through Red’s body, against the weaving of fever’s wicked web.

Determined, Red sets the tunic aside and gives Regina another once-over. “Do you want to take your hair down?” Red suggests. “Might help ease some of the tension in your head.” Another nod, this time accompanied by an actual _whimper_ , and where tension and anger meet in her chest, ache bleeds through the divide, dripping from wounds still fresh, without a tourniquet. Red sets to work at undoing the messy, unkempt braid tossed over Regina’s shoulder, murmurs soothingly any time she tugs a little too hard at one of the locks.

Regina’s eyes slip shut again once her hair is free, loose, head starting to falter, buckle under its own weight. “Okay, let’s… have you lie down again, yeah?” Red sighs. Gently, she guides Regina onto her back again and wedges a pillow under head as best she can. There’s a glimmer of relief in the lines of Regina’s face — brief, and barely noticeable, but it’s enough to encourage Red to keep going.

She reaches down, grabs the small blanket from the foot of the bed and drapes it over her own lap so it’s at the ready, when she needs it. Regina’s… fading fast, if she hasn’t already, coughing weakly in sick-sleep. One more thing, Red decides, and then she’ll cover Regina with the blanket, give her a while to warm from the middle out before trying to finish the job.

She comes very aware, all at once, of just how tight her own clothes feel right now. She casts a sidelong glance at where her nightgown is draped over the large, cushioned chair; it’s well past the time she’d be preparing to retire for the night. The slight twinge of envy she feels as she undoes the buckle on Regina’s belt is selfish, she knows, but it won’t be much longer, Red reasons. Regina will be okay for a couple of minutes, once she’s under a blanket, and Red can make herself more comfortable in the interim.

It’s more than a little awkward, trying to tug the belt through the loops on Regina’s trousers, particularly given that Red can’t exactly roll her around a whole lot right now, but she manages, in the end, and sets the belt aside with the rest of the clothes she’s collected thus far. She’s pulling apart the folded edges of the blanket when she sees it, does a double take, and narrows her focus to the place Regina’s shirt has ridden up a little, along her side.

Blanket abandoned, Red leans in closer, takes care to be extra gentle as she pushes the shirt up a bit more to expose the skin mottled purple and blue, and just shy of turning brown. It’s not fresh, the bruise, but nowhere near healed either, and Red’s fingers trail along the pattern tracing how far it goes — along Regina’s side, curving slightly onto her back.

Regina hisses slightly, face pinched in pain, but she doesn’t stir otherwise, and Red knows she’s at least dozing, if not already being pulled under by sleep. Still, Red offers up a soft _I’m sorry_ and tries to keep her touch feather light as she continues her exploration. Granny will want to know about the bruise, at least, and any other injuries that have yet to come to light. Regina clearly can’t string more than a few words together at a time right now to tell them anything useful, and Red wouldn’t be surprised if there _were_ other injuries — ones Regina might not even know about, given how far into her body the sickness has sunk its roots. Teeth digging into her lower lip, Red adjusts Regina’s shirt some more, untwists and pushes up and away and oh, _oh_.

Oh, _fuck_.

Everything inside of her seizes up, blood and breath turned to ice at the sight that greets her. There’s a thrumming inside of her chest, beating of her heart too-rapid for even the wolf to withstand. She swallows hard, her vision blurring around the edges, and it takes two, three, four tries for her voice to shatter against a ceiling made of ice at the top of her throat. “Granny?” she calls, and her voice splinters, cracks and breaks entirely somewhere along the edges.

(For the first time in what feels like a long time, Red feels every bit the seventeen she is, and she really, really wishes she didn’t.)

“What is it?” Granny calls back, but it’s an echo, down the tiny hallway, and Red hears the shuffle of her feet against the floor before she can form a reply. It’s less than half a moment before Granny’s rounding the corner and reentering the room. There’s something in her hands — a damp cloth, maybe, though it’s hard to tell, out of the corner of her eye, and Red will not pull her gaze from Regina for a second, right now. “Red?”

And at a loss for words, Red can only manage one. “ _Look_.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The crunch of snow beneath hooves is softer than it was, just last week, no longer the icy _snip-crack_ of a gentle smattering of snow across the ground. Now it seems the entire Enchanted Forest quivers under a blanket of white, save perhaps the Sea Kingdom in the far west. Two weeks, it’s been snowing, from light flurries to near-blizzards and every manner of storm in between. It’s not the earliest winter has settled in Misthaven — that one is a handful of years beyond his living memory, from what he’s heard — but it’s damn near close to it, and definitely the earliest he’s ever seen it.

Relentless, unforgiving, and growing more cruel every day, and as Robin ducks beneath curtains of a willow tree dusted white, the very center of his bones seize up solid, like ice.

He is going to rue the day he brushed off Regina’s warning, but he is determined ( _obstinate_ , the back of his mind supplies, sounding suspiciously like John, _and too fucking proud for your own good_ ) that today is not that day.

(Gods, he hopes today is not that day. He shudders to think what it might mean, if it is.)

As it is, he’s supposes he’s protected enough from the elements. His boots are holding up reasonably well against the weather; it’s part of the reason they’d opted to ride the horses, into the north. He’d been gifted with a new cloak, when he left West End, to replace the one he’d damaged, and John, well. John can’t still be all that furious with him, Robin reasons, if he’d gone to the effort of mending Robin’s gloves for him.

His scarf, though, Robin can’t account for: he could’ve sworn he’d left it back at camp, before sneaking into Nottingham, but it hadn’t been in his tent when he’d returned.

“Hang on a minute,” Will murmurs, snapping Robin out of his reverie. Almost in sync, the three of them pull up on the reins to bring the horses to a stop.

It’s quieter here, away from any nearby towns or markets or villages. The birds have migrated west (just like Regina said they would), and much of the game has begun the retreat from the snow as well — either west, with the fowl, or into hiding, from the cold. The sheer stillness of the air around them is almost… eerie, quite frankly, would have his skin crawling, if not for the gentle flurry of snow falling. It’s here Robin chooses to redirect his focus — to the soft dusting of white that lands upon Rocinante’s mane, and the gentle whicker of breath that breaks the otherwise silent solitude.

“D’you notice anything… odd?” Will ventures after a few minutes, snow shifting off of his shoulders as he glances around.

“No?” Robin replies, nose wrinkling as he too, surveys the surrounding trees and slopes. “It’s a bit quiet, yeah, but I’m not surprised, given the weather.”

“I… don’t think it’s the weather,” John says, hand rubbing idly at Lady K’s neck to soothe her when she starts to get a bit restless. That, Robin does find a bit odd: Lady K is a bit temperamental, true enough, but rarely does she feel uneasy with John at the reins. “It’s almost like something else drove everything out.”

“Guards?” Robin guesses, trying not to dwell on the brief flare of panic in his belly at the thought. “The queen’s been sending out more patrols, as of late.”

“Maybe,” Will allows, “but it just… feels like something else, mate. I can’t explain it.”

“‘s alright,” Robin says, guiding Rocinante down a small slope before descending, sinking into snowy ground. “Let’s tie up the horses for a bit, yeah? Continue on foot the rest of the way? That way we can have a closer look at things, in case anything is amiss.”

It doesn’t take long for the others to agree, although John does have a bit of a rough go in guiding Lady K over to where he’s settled Rocinante for the time being. Her steps are lighter, almost… skittish, like there’s something other than frost nipping at her heels. There’s a strained quality to the half-broken little whinnies she makes on her way down, head shaking almost like she’s protesting. Robin finds himself digging into his satchel for a handful of grain, just to keep her occupied long enough for John to dismount, but Rocinante beats her to it, nose against Robin’s glove in the space of a blink. Robin makes to glance over his shoulder to reprimand him, but Lady K doesn’t seem to mind all that much. She’s calmer now, closer to Rocinante, noses at his ear, his neck as John finally finds his way to the ground.

Will takes even longer to join them, keeps pausing Penelope in her tracks to glance around again. He’s clearly on edge but it’s not… paranoia, Robin thinks, not the same sort of fidgeting he’s used to with Will when they’re mid-robbery, or worried about being followed back to camp. It’s almost as if he’s… searching for something, secrets buried beneath the snow, and Robin wonders if perhaps it might be smarter to let Will take the lead for the last leg of their journey, if only to put his mind at ease.

There’s a twinge of an echo in the back of his throat at that — _you are normally the first one to step up_ — that leaves a bitter taste upon his tongue. Pride, that the little John in his head snaps at him to _swallow the fuck down already_ , and in doing so there is a gaping, burning hole in Robin’s chest where his heart used to reside.

He has come to the Willow Forest to claim it back at last — or at the very least, ask the thief he’d allowed to steal his heart to handle it with care.

(More than that, he owes her much the same — an apology, at the very least, for leaving lashes upon hers when they were undeserved.)

Eventually, though, Will does rejoin them, ties up Penelope with the other horses and tucks a spare dagger in his boot. He looks to Robin for guidance, and it occurs to Robin then that much as Will might _want_ to lead them the rest of the way, the fact of the matter is that he can’t — at least not without proper directions. Of the three of them, Robin is the only one who’s been where they’re going, and only he can put them on the right path.

So Robin leads, albeit carefully, keeps checking back over his shoulder to make sure none of them drifted more than ten paces apart. Together, they make their way deeper into the forest, up small inclines and around the bends of makeshift paths that curve around trees. John’s the one who gets a touch paranoid, once Robin offers up a murmured _we’re getting close_ — doubles back a bit and tries to cover up some of their tracks to make them harder to trace, or follow. And it _is_ paranoia — they each have noticed just how frightfully alone they seem to be, in this part of the forest — but Robin recognizes it for what it truly is, underneath: anxiety, in unfamiliar territory, under the heel of someone who would wish to do Regina harm.

Even when she’s not among them, the men continue to step up for her, and pride gnaws at his bones until he feels like he’s about to crack open for all the guilt.

He’s no idea where to even _begin_ in making amends with her, but he’s thought of nothing else in weeks — since even before waking up in West End, when his eyes had slipped shut as darkness closed in around him, and the only thing he could see was home.

Her.

“Wait,” John says suddenly, hand gripping at Robin’s bicep to halt his movement. Will pauses as well, a good twenty feet away (and he’s drifted too far, damn it, while Robin had let loathing cloud his focus), but he draws more near when John takes a step in front of Robin and leans over what’s left of a bush. Branches, mostly, a handful of thorns, but there’s no bloom, no blossoms or berries, leaves shed long before, and buried beneath the snow now. But there’s something not quite right about it either — almost as if the branches aren’t just barren, for the winter, but —

“Dead,” John decides, after a moment’s inspection.

“Not dead, mate,” Will says, low and under his breath as he too, leans in closer, kneels just shy of the ground. “ _Burned_.”

Robin squints to discern the blackened wood around the places the roots disappear into the ground, gaze drifting farther forward, up along the slope and no, _no_. The whole hillside is barren, devoid of any brush or fallen foliage. The fire had spread, had claimed and consumed across the forest floor. They are at the end of the path it marked — white snow mixes, melts against ground that’s gray-black with ash — and Robin trips, stumbles his way up the hill in his haste to reach the peak.

He knows what’s on the other side of that hill.

His legs strain, burn the last few strides, boots sinking into snow deceptively deep, but he reaches the top and halts, chest seizing up tight at what lies below. The entire glen has become a graveyard of gray, ground smattered with ash that crunches and breaks underfoot. The snow will not cling to it, keeps melting almost as soon as it lands, touches; only around the edges of the glen does it begin to stick, pile, creating a circle of banks. Every tree — from willow to cedar and all between — is gruesomely charred, blistered black and chipping away at once healthy bark. One glance up toward the sky is near-blinding against all of the bright snowlight, and there are no leaves to be found on the branches overhead, canopies stripped bare like they were never there.

In an odd sort of way, it’s almost like falling down a rabbit hole into another realm — to a place where love is lost, and dreams go to die.

(She cannot, _cannot_ die.)

“Bloody fucking hell,” Will breathes, sidling up next to him.

John brings up the rear, elbow brushing against Robin’s (he’s hovering, he can’t possibly still be angry, not when he’s handling Robin like he’s spun glass). “Wildfire, you think?”

“No, mate,” Will says, gesturing out toward the edges of the glen at the place ash and snow meet but do not mingle. “Too controlled for that. I think it was magic.”

“Snow,” Robin chokes out, voice barely above a whisper, and all the pieces start to come together as his gaze lands, settles upon the heart of the forest: for there, on the other side of the glen, is Regina’s old hollow.

What’s left of it, anyway.

He’s sliding, skidding down the hillside half-blind and entirely without sense, heart pounding in his chest and pulsing, ringing in his ears. He’s no idea if the others follow him, doesn’t care at the moment — can’t care, not when the place he’d expected to find his heart is damaged beyond all repair. He kicks up ash as he picks up pace, half running across the glen toward the disintegrating hollow. He nearly falls victim to Regina’s traps along the way, his focus is so narrow: his foot slips, turns and scrambles out and away from the edge of the pit she’d dug, beneath the cedar tree (narrowly avoids twisting his ankle entirely); the toe of his boot catches awkwardly in the dirt, has him misstepping, stumbling and just barely hopping over the tripwire he knows will set loose the falling log.

The branches and leaves she’d woven together as a makeshift door are nowhere to be found, leaving the opening of the hollow gaping, unguarded. Robin is met with nothing but a black abyss, the depths of which could harbor anything from nothing to horrors unspeakable, but still he presses forward, trips heart over feet on his way inside. The darkness swallows him the deeper he goes, has him reaching out to touch the walls for purchase, guidance. It’s smaller than he remembers: it’s been well over a year, nigh a year and a half, he thinks, since he was here last.

The inside of the hollow is damaged as well; he can feel it in the way bark crumbles beneath his gloves. Each piece that chips away is like a memory overturned: sultry nights against dim firelight, when he’d mapped out the planes of her body and had her arching beneath his touch; misty afternoons seeking refuge from rain, when he’d tucked her flush against him and wrapped a blanket around them both while they waited for their clothes to dry, coins scattered about her table as they took stock of a job well done; drowsy mornings waking up with the summer sun, when they’d ventured to put love into words, and Robin had asked her the very same question he longs to beg of her now.

_Come back with me, to Sherwood. Stay._

He’s only aware that he’s at last reached the pit of the hollow when his feet nudge against the rocks that had circled up to form a makeshift hearth. The broken daylight filtering through the snow clouds is barely visible this far in, has him squinting just to discern any shapes, but it’s enough, in the end, to tell him what he needs to know. Gone is the table she’d so carefully constructed for all her work. The frame of her (surprisingly comfortable) cot is naught but pieces now, weakened by fire and snapping easily beneath his boot.

He steps back, shifts to the side and hears a definitive, echoing _crack_ underfoot. He fumbles around in the near-dark for a few seconds, struggling to find anything discernable amongst dirt and ash, but the sharp edges dig into his gloves in the places mended over by John. Seashells, he thinks, the ones she’d hung with feathers along the inside of the hollow’s walls — now chipped, cracked, broken into pieces on the ground, feathers nowhere to be found.

Anything practical, she’d brought with her to Sherwood and deemed communal. All else (all personal), she’d kept near her almost at all times — none of which Robin had been able to find in their tent, after she’d left.

There’s no real trace of her left here — nothing but the ghost her solitude had left behind — and Robin finds himself unsure whether or not he can breathe easier at the realization.

(He _should_ take great comfort in being met with next to nothing: it’s a damn sight better, he’s certain, than finding what’s left of a body.)

He’s still hovering in the in between — breath coming in short, shallow bursts, ragged with worry and not quite on the brink of panic — when he emerges from the hollow’s gutted center to find both John and Will waiting for him. “Find anything?” John asks, a touch of earnest in his voice that he fails miserably at hiding, as Robin steps back out into daylight and falling snow.

Robin glances over his shoulder briefly before shaking his head. “Place was cleaned out — well, smoked out, is more like it.”

“Someone knew she used to live here, must’ve given the queen old intel,” Will mutters, glaring darkly around the too-neat edges of the path the fire had licked, consumed. And _there’s_ the paranoia, manifesting in fretful, dodging glances and twitching, fidgeting on the spot. “I don’t like this,” he says, low and under his breath. “Makes me feel like we’re being followed — or watched.”

“I don’t know,” John ventures, though he sounds unconvinced he too, is surveying the space around them. “The queen destroyed anything livable or of value — she made a _point_ of it. Why leave lookouts or spies behind when there’s nothing for Regina to come back to?”

Idly, Robin reaches up to rub at the back of his neck while the three of them mull over the situation in silence for a few minutes. The slight stretching has him hissing slightly as the pain in his side fractals through his abdomen like poison stinging across his skin. Gingerly, he lowers his arm, leans against the tree nearest to the hollow that looks like it can still support his weight after embers have eaten away at it. It doesn’t escape John’s notice, has him raising his eyebrows in silent question, expression askance at Robin’s attempt at a dismissal. John’s subsequent _tsk_ is damn near like the cluck of a mother hen, and the way with which he starts to rifle through his bag (which, in turn, prompts Will to cast a knowing look Robin’s way and begin to rifle through his own satchel) for something to alleviate the pain has Robin feeling fifteen all over again. Reckless, and stupid, and completely at a loss as to how to properly care for himself, on his own.

Striving, he knows deep down, to step out of his father’s damning shadow, and really, that’s the whole reason he’s in this mess in the first place, isn’t it — because he’d tried, and failed, so hard not to repeat history, and had doomed himself to repeat it in the end anyway.

( _Why do you need to be someone else? Why isn’t who you are enough?_ )

Pride and failure had warped him into his father, and the only way to set foot back on the path he’d chosen for himself, all those years ago, is to bleed and bleed the poison out until there is nothing left but love, and longing, and light.

Robin exhales heavily and drops his gaze while they rifle through their things, tries to pull the pieces of his mind stretched thin back into something he can use. There’s a flash of something that catches against the stormy daylight, a not-quite golden glint that has him doing a double take, squinting closer to discern it better beneath all the wreckage Snow had left behind. He kneels, gets halfway down when he’s finally able to make it out, and Robin’s heart lodges in his throat as he reaches for it, whole body shaking as he rises to his feet. Here at last is the answer to John’s question, and Robin’s voice is unsteady, breath sharp and shallow when he speaks.

“Because,” he says, breath hitching around a gasp as he holds up the necklace he’d gifted her with, last Yuletide, “Regina _was_ here — _recently_.”

For a moment it seems both Will and John are simply stunned into silence at the sight of it, but it’s Will, in the end, who breaks it — gives voice to the sentiment they all share. “ _Shit_ ,” he says, sucking in a breath, and if that isn’t a vast understatement for the situation at present. “That’s — d’you think she was here, when the fire started? Do you — _fuck_ , Robin, do you think the queen got to her?”

“I… I don’t — _gods_ ,” Robin gasps, leaning against the tree and sliding, dropping down until he’s sinking into ash that should be snow, his quiver catching awkwardly against gnarled, twisted bark. “What if she did, Will, what if this is —“

“The queen did _not_ capture her,” John says, a firm, thin thing that startles breath back into Robin’s lungs. He nearly misses the hissed reprimand of _thanks, Will_ that slithers from John’s lips, but that’s as far as he’ll let his chastising go, turns his attention back to Robin almost instantly. Trust John to be level-headed at a time like this, when the world is ash around them, thank the gods for him. “The entire fucking Enchanted Forest would have heard about it, if she had. There are plenty of other explanations for why that’s here. She could’ve just dropped it and not realized it,” John reasons, and that’s… fair, Robin allows, relaxes a bit against the tree and tugs his gloves free of his hands.

“She could’ve taken it off and left it,” John continues, pointedly leveling a look at where Robin’s sat on the ground. “We all know how fucking angry she was with you, when she left—”

“John,” Will murmurs, and it’s a gentler reprimand, one that only pulls John back by half, if his frustrated sigh is any indication.

“Or let’s say the queen _did_ capture her,” John poses, holding up a hand against the breath Robin sucks in by half. “Maybe she left this behind as a way for us to find her.”

“That’s putting an awful lot of faith in a bunch of men who have trouble remembering their own names, when they’ve had enough drink,” Will says, clearly dubious.

“Yeah, well,” John sighs, leaning against the tree next to Robin and folding his arms over his chest. “Regina always did believe in the best in us even when we didn’t deserve it.”

“Oh, give it a rest, mate,” Will snaps, sinking down onto the ground next to Robin with a disgruntled huff. “He fucked up royally, he knows that, he’s trying to make it right. Keep making him pay penance with us and there’ll be none left for the person who’s actually owed it.”

John has the decency to look properly chewed out, shoulders sagging a bit under guilt, and though his voice is firm his expression is altogether kinder when he turns his gaze upon Robin once more. “I’m just saying that finding her necklace here doesn’t necessarily mean any one of those conclusions. We know she was here after she left Sherwood. We know the queen was here sometime after Regina came to Sherwood to live with us. That’s… a huge window of time for there to be overlap. It’s not likely they crossed paths, and I’m telling you, if they _had_ , we would’ve heard about it.”

“Would we’ve?” Robin counters, the _what if_ s settling into his body like clouds before a storm, dread churning in the pit of his stomach. “No, think about it,” he insists against the way John sucks in a breath to protest. “After what happened with Nottingham, we all but fell off the map. None of you ventured out much, while I was in West End, and by the time I came back, we agreed it was best to lie low for a while. Before these expeditions, when have any of us been away from camp long enough to even catch _whispers_ of rumors, much less any actual news?”

“That doesn’t have to mean anything —“

“No, it doesn’t,” Robin agrees, pushing away from the tree slightly, “but it could mean _anything_. Snow still could’ve found her, whether here or elsewhere. She still could’ve ordered Regina’s execution, _and_ made a public spectacle of it, and we just haven’t caught wind of it yet. And even if none of that’s true,” he argues, barreling on and the _what if_ s sink all the way down, Fear becoming shadow upon his soul, “that doesn’t mean Regina is _okay_. What if something _did_ happen to her and not even Snow knows about it? What if _no one_ knows about it, because she fell off the edge of a cliff and vanished right off the face of—”

“Okay, hey, hey, stop,” John murmurs, hands anchoring on both of Robin’s cheeks and oh, oh, when did he kneel down, when did he get in front of Robin, why is the world spinning — “Breathe, okay? Just — eyes on me, and breathe for a minute.” And Robin _tries_ — he does, he really does, huffs out a sharp, broken thing that takes more breath than it gives him, but Fear just grips tight at his throat, digs its nails in and _what if, what if whatifwhatifwhat_ — 

“Robin,” John says again, firmer this time and Robin’s answering exhale is slower, more of a shudder, his eyes are stinging and _Regina, Regina, Regina_. “Give me your hands.”

The words are like an arrow against his spine, hit exactly the right nerve and one last shallow breath has him nodding, breathing a little easier. The stinging in his eyes doesn’t quite go away — gets worse, honestly, has his vision swimming with tears desperate to spill forth — but he’s calmed enough to offer up his hands, just as John lets go and pulls back.

His hands are stained with ash.

Ash, not blood, but the echo is enough to root him against hallowed ground tainted by a witch’s magic. He is Robin of Locksley and not fifteen but two years older, broken and bowed with blood on his hands. He is all heart that spills over the edges, anger and sorrow intertwined and he is _good_ , he longs to be goodness, and grace. He is not his father, he’s not, he will not be of Locksley and Robin is _good_ , a patron saint to the people. He is shelter, and home, and teacher, provides refuge to those as lost as he was and good, good, good.

He comes back to himself just as John finishes using water from a canteen to wash off Robin’s hands, and somewhere in the ether between seventeen and now emerges the long-standing truth: John is his _brother_ , and no amount of absolute idiocy is enough to make him sever that bond.

And he _is_ an idiot: he is Robin Hood, and he is good, and he is a damned, damned fool in love with a woman he feels he’s done nothing to deserve — a woman who, by all accounts, brings out the best, and worst of him, every day.

If she dies, Robin _will_ break in ways he hasn’t since he was seventeen, and this time, he’s not sure he has it in him to piece himself back together.

“You know,” Will says, shifting, scooting over to sit next to Robin, “John’s right.” John snorts a little at that, mutters a _of course I am_ under his breath that doesn’t go unnoticed by either of them, but they both choose to ignore. “I don’t think the queen’s gotten to her yet. Not because it’d be an awful coincidence for them to have crossed paths here, or because someone sold Regina out, or because we’ve been out of the world for a bit. Regina’s had plenty of close calls with her before — it’s how she had the pleasure of meeting your idiot ass,” Will reminds him, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, Robin actually smiles.

“But think about it,” he reasons, plucking the necklace from where Robin had dropped it and dusting off the ash with his gloves. “How many years has Regina been on the run from this lunatic? And in all that time, the queen’s never once managed to actually corner her for more than five minutes? You’d think with all she has at her disposal — between the treasury and the soldiers and all that magic she dabbles in — she would have actually accomplished something. And it’s not like she’d be concerned about the price of magic with how fucking casually she murders people, so really I think she’s just doing a shit job of utilizing her resources.”

Will has a point, Robin supposes, leaning back against the tree once more and accepting the necklace back.

“Well, either that, or her heart’s really just not in it,” John mutters, but there’s the barest hint of a laugh in his voice, one that gets pulled forward when Will chortles at the half-joke. With a groan he pushes himself back to his feet and glances around. “The snow’s letting up,” he observes. “We should get back to the horses, head to camp before it picks up again.”

( _At some point the weather’s going to be bad enough that we can’t break camp and move elsewhere_ vibrates violently at the base of Robin’s skull, and the necklace is suddenly a heavy weight in his hands.)

“C’mon mate,” Will prompts, standing now and holding out a hand to help him up. “The rest of the Merry Men will make their way back soon enough, and when all of the search parties have returned we can figure out where to go next. Maybe some of the others turned up better leads.”

“Yeah,” Robin agrees faintly, without much conviction. “Maybe.” He grimaces a bit when Will tugs a touch too hard, muscles along his side spasming in protest. It’s enough to distract him while the others pull themselves together and make to head back down across the glen, enough to make him decide against hooking the necklace on like he’d originally planned. Carefully, very, very fucking carefully, Robin finds a place for it in his satchel and resolves to find one better when he gets back to camp.

For now, this is all he has left of her: he can’t lose it.

He spares one last glance behind him at the ruins of Regina’s former home — at the place that had kept them safe, for damn near half a year, and allowed their love a quiet haven in which to bloom — and hopes that wherever she is, she’s safe from harm.

It’s not until he’s halfway down the hill, between the falling log and the pit trap, that the implication behind Will’s words finally strikes him straight through like lightning, and Robin halts in his tracks, heart racing as all the breath leaves him at once.

“Robin?” John calls from across the glen. “What is it?”

Hope floods his lungs, and slowly, Robin’s lips curve into a smile. “I think… I may know a way we can find her.”


	3. Chapter 3

_His muscles are aching and sore when he wakes; sleeping on stone with little cushion to soften the impact will do that to a person, he supposes. He can feel the beginnings of hunger pains settling in his stomach, but it’s not too bad yet, not twisting and pinching and begging for sustenance. He’ll need to find food by high noon, he thinks — he’d shared the last of his reserves with Regina last night — but there’s plenty of time still. The sun hasn’t quite crept up over the horizon yet, has yet to beam down over treetops and make its way to the glen where the waterfall resides, the light dim and white and almost mist-like by comparison._

_With a groan, Robin pushes himself up and away from where he’d balled his cloak into a makeshift pillow and sits up, leaning against the cavern wall in an attempt to straighten out the muscles in his back. He’s slow to come into full consciousness, yawning as he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and tries to reorient himself to his surroundings. The rain’s tapered off a bit but probably won’t let up for another couple of hours, if the gentle hush and occasional_ split-splat _of water against stone is anything to go by. The ground will be damp and soft by the time they venture out to make their way to their respective homes — a fact that will make the journey all the more sluggish and drawn out and one Robin is not at all looking forward to._

_Annoyed, he shifts his attention back to the inside of the cavern in search of Regina, blinking blearily in confusion when he finds her belongings, but not her. Another glance around, more discerning this time, yields the sight of her clothes hanging over the edge of a protrusion along the inner wall. It takes him a few seconds too long to put the pieces of that together — the memory of her soaked and shivering when he’d stumbled upon her yesterday evening is a bit hazy around the edges — but when he does, he finds himself suddenly uncomfortably alert and awake at the realization. She’s hung the clothes out to dry, obviously — they’d make for an uncomfortable trip home, otherwise, and there’s always the risk of catching cold — but he knows for certain she hadn’t brought any others with her on her week-long journey. She’d packed the bare essentials and precious little else, impressing upon him the need to be light, quick, agile while she crossed kingdom borders._

_All of that is to say, though, that with her belongings still here and her clothes hanging out to dry, Regina is still somewhere inside the cavern behind the waterfall, and she is decidedly more than likely… naked._

_Well then._

_Robin inhales sharply if for no other reason than to keep his composure (to ignore the way heat twists down low at the thought), and it’s then that he smells it. “Lavender?” he calls out, hoping he doesn’t startle her too badly._

_A beat, and then, “I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re part wolf or something.”_

_“Good morning to you, too,” he chuckles back, reaching down to pry off his boots, stockings. “Where did you find it? I didn’t think it grew around these parts.”_

_He can practically_ hear _the smile in Regina’s voice when she answers. “It’s soap, actually,” she says, a hint of teasing in her tone. “Picked it up when I was out west before I started heading back. Had to trade an entire fox pelt for it too, but the market next to the palace is the only one where Ella sets up her stand, and the bar usually lasts me a good long while, so I can’t exactly complain.”_

_Robin can’t help the slight tsk of annoyance that escapes him as he unfurls his scarf, fingers working nimbly to undo his belt, the laces on his tunic. “That’s reckless,” he chastises, “and you know it. Entering the fray of a royal market is dangerous. What if you’d been recognized — or worse, caught?”_

_“Why Robin Hood,” she quips, the barest hint of a laugh in her voice, “I didn’t know you cared.”_

_He heaves a great sigh as he tugs his tunic up and off, sets it aside with the rest of this things to dry. “Obstinate, headstrong, foolish woman,” he mutters, and promptly ignores her pointed_ I heard that! _in reply. “Well as long as you’ve gone to all the trouble, d’you mind passing it along my way when you’re finished? I could use a proper scrub down myself.”_

_“Now who’s bartering?” she quips, teasing, downright sassing him for the request, and Robin cannot help the laugh that bubbles up out of him. There’s a beat of silence after his laughter tapers off, another while he stretches, smiles, and then she’s sighing, half-irritated, “Oh, get over here, you idiot. All those manners your mother instilled in you are impractical out here in the wild.”_

_Robin stills at that, curses his traitorous heart for picking up pace at the allowance she’s making and fuck, fuck, why did she have to be naked in the morning, of all times, when he’s still bearing the vestiges of sleep-arousal as it is? It’s not as though he’s no self-control — he likes to think he’s not a complete cad — but this is just… different. It’s not the same as it was, in his younger days, when bedding barmaids was more commonplace and completely careless. Nor is it the opposite, as it had been with Zelena, when he’d had to toe the line of propriety under watchful eyes, and often keep his hands to himself._

_This is Regina, without any sort of rules, limitations or guidelines, and Robin has not forgotten the way he’d lost his heart to her, that day by the river._

_She’s become too important — means too much to him, to end up a mistake like all the others._

_“Robin?”_

_“Sorry,” he calls back, snapping himself out of his reverie. He chews at his lip for a moment, draws in a breath and decides to follow her lead. She has, after all, not lead him wrong before. “Yeah, just… give me a minute here.”_

_He tries not to be too hasty in removing his shirt, his trousers, doesn’t want to seem overeager at what is decidedly not an invitation but doesn’t want to keep her waiting either and this is stupid, he’s being stupid, he’s tying himself up in knots over nothing._

_(She is not nothing — she never has been.)_

_The stone is damp, cold against his bare feet, takes a minute to get used to as he crosses the cavern toward the opening where the waterfall spills over into the pond below. He turns toward the wall once he rounds the last curve, inches his way along until he can make out the faint shadows of her silhouette behind him, and then stops, for good measure. “Alright,” he sighs, ducking under the overhang to give his body a good rinse-off and inhaling sharply at the way water stings, bites cold at his skin. “When you’re done, yeah?”_

_Regina merely hmms in reply, and for a few moments they content themselves without conversation. Water is like a wash of white noise against his ears from sky and stone alike, feels like heaven against his scalp, against the worn calluses of his hands, feet. He’s rather chuffed, really, that she trusted him well enough to share her little secluded sanctuary with him last night: it would make for a nice stopover on longer journeys, particularly when he embarks on a heist solo, and needs a bit of a break from his company of men._

_It’s not until he’s half stepped out of the spray and pressed his palm against the cavern wall, head bowed and eyes closed, that Regina breaks the comfortable silence between them with an annoyed_ tsk _of her own. “You know,” she drawls, startling him a bit when her hand finds his, presses the bar of soap into his palm, “you are far too chivalrous for your own good.”_

_It takes him longer than he’s proud of to piece together her meaning, his face flushing slightly when he realizes she’s making fun of him, for averting his gaze. “Yes, well,” he mumbles under his breath, working up a good lather before setting to work washing up and good gods, he was wrong, this is heaven, the way the suds feel against his skin. “That hasn’t changed just because I’ve gone back to life as an outlaw.”_

_Regina laughs at him, high and clear (and there’s a slight snort of amusement, there, at the bottom of her throat, that has his lips curving up). “A thief with honor,” she muses from behind him. “I guess that’s a better title than Lord Locksley.”_

_“Or letch,” he reasons, because really, that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?_

_“You’re being ridiculous,” she sighs, a touch dramatic, and the curve turns to teeth, has Robin biting his lip in an effort not to laugh at her. “It’s not as if there’s anything you haven’t seen before, Robin,” she argues pointedly, “and nothing of value to protect, at that.”_

_Something in his chest twists painfully at that, has a flash of fury sear up his sternum, white-hot and burning, and the words tumble out of his mouth without thought. “Well that’s just not true now, is it?”_

_“Meaning?”_

_Robin huffs a little at the challenge: arguing with her is like going up against the goddamn sun, sometimes, but at least it’s taken the edge off this morning and redirected some of the blood to other parts of his body. “Meaning,” he throws back, setting the bar down on stone and working the last remnants of soap through his hair, “for someone who has a startlingly acute perception of others, you really think very little of yourself.”_

_“Ah,” Regina replies knowingly, her voice growing faint for a few seconds as Robin ducks back under the waterfall to rinse off. “And you’ve always admired my skill.”_

_It’s Robin’s turn to snort a little, he cannot help it, the fight melting out of his shoulders at her roundabout little attempt at deflecting the compliment. She’s fucking impossible, honestly, knows there’s value in her skill, and will gladly jump at any opportunity to prove its worth when it matters the absolute least. “I just meant,” he says, low, a touch emphatic, “that I’m very much aware that I’ve been privy to things you keep from most everyone else,” — here Regina’s breath hitches, catches in her chest, a soft thing otherwise lost to the rush-hiss of rain but Robin presses on — “which… I like to think means I know you a little better — as you do me.” A beat, and then, “I don’t take it for granted, Regina.”_

_She doesn’t respond right away, nor after a good moment or two either and it leaves Robin wondering if perhaps there’s a line he’s crossed, without knowing where he stands. The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, has him rinsing, spitting in an effort to distract himself from the way his stomach bottoms out, feels hollow, in the pit of his belly. It does little to soothe his rattled nerves though, and each moment, however few there are, feels like an hour against the tension her silence has left in the air. He should apologize, he thinks, for… something, or at the very least try to suss out exactly where the line is with her and fuck, fuck, why did he think it was okay to go into this blind—_

_He sucks in a gasp at the touch of her fingertips against his back, skimming along his shoulder, and he holds the breath altogether when her lips take their place, grazing kisses soft, wet and warm against his skin. It’s the only point of contact she initiates, though, doesn’t touch him anywhere else, and the heat of her so near has Robin’s cock twitching with renewed interest, shit, fuck._

_“And, uh,” she ventures, voice dropping down low, growing a little rough around the edges and fuck, fuck, fuck, “if I invited you to see me more clearly?”_

_He tries, fails to let the breath out slow as he turns, just slightly, to look at her hovering at his shoulder. His eyes rake over what he can see greedily: the wet, stringy curl of her hair swept over her shoulder; the gentle slope of her nose, against the gray-white light of summer’s sun rising behind a storm; the long fan of her eyelashes as her eyes flutter shut, with each kiss she bestows upon him._

_Gods, she’s fucking stunning._

_His voice matches hers, from the depths of his chest, fingers tingling with the longing to return her touch. He cannot, cannot fuck this up. “I’d ask if you were sure.”_

_The corner of her mouth quirks up, eyes sparkling with something close to mischief when she opens them, and that’s all the warning he gets before she’s pressing her whole body against him, her front to his back. All of the blood in his body rushes back down — he can feel the full, round curves of her breasts and her nipples are stiff, peaked from the cold fuck, fuck, fuck — and he tries, valiantly, fails, miserably, to bite back a groan._

_“And,” she says, and her voice changes again, bears a hint of pride as it turns breathy, high and oh gods, he’s fucking done for, “if I said yes?”_

_He’s turning into her the second the last word leaves her lips, hands skimming, curling around her waist to keep her flush against him. She smells of lavender, willow and salt, and this time it’s her turn to suck in a gasp, eyes flicking down briefly to where she can’t quite see but knows, can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against her belly. The mischief in her eyes shifts into intrigue when she looks back up at him, an invitation he gladly takes, growing a little bolder as he leans in to brush his nose against hers. “I’d ask,” he murmurs, acutely aware of the fact that their lips are only a breath apart, not yet, not yet, not yet, “if I might steal a kiss.”_

_He feels, more than sees, her lips curve up the rest of the way into a gorgeous, devious little smile, and it takes every minute bit of his self-control to wait out her answer. “I’d remind you,” she says, quiet, a hint of teasing in her tone, “that you can’t steal something that’s been given to you. And,” she adds, reaching up to rake her fingers through the long, damp locks of his hair that have fallen over his brow, “I’d ask what took you so fucking long.”_

_“I’ve no idea,” he breathes, arching into her touch, and he would fucking follow her anywhere, if this is how she leads, “but I damn well don’t intend to waste another second.”_

_And when Regina finally kisses him, it feels like coming home._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The world is wet, when she wakes.

Or rather, that’s her pillow, freshly damp, and it takes her a long moment of blinking, trying to orient herself to the world again, for her to realize it’s not from sweat, but tears.

She’s… crying.

Or had been, in her sleep. Gingerly, Regina reaches up a hand, wipes at the last of her tears and rubs the rheum from her eyes, face crinkling with a frown. The last vestiges of dream-memory fade quickly with each new breath she takes, prompts her into inhaling slowly, digging down deep for air. Partially to try and pull reason from her subconscious, yes, but mostly because she _can_. It’s been weeks, an entire fucking eternity since she last was able to breathe in from the bottom of her lungs without falling prey to coughing fits and she _relishes_ in it now, even with sick still settled midway down, stinging beneath her breastbone.

Her vision swims, blurs between sleep and wet and light, and the last time she closes her eyes before she surrenders herself to the world of the living she can feel, with stark clarity, the ghost of lips soft against her temple.

Robin.

She longs, yearns, fucking _aches_ with every last scrap of her soul to be wrapped safe and warm in his embrace, but the very second she opens her eyes to the light she loses his love to the dark.

Something in her splinters and cracks, fracture forming along the sharp, jagged edges of her already broken heart. No matter how hard she tries, she doesn’t think she’s ever going to be able to fall out of love with him — and she kind of hates him for it.

“Hey,” Red prompts gently as she rounds the foot of the bed, startling Regina into a half-sneeze. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Regina dismisses with a sniff, hand sifting through her cocoon until she finds her handkerchief. “‘m fine, it was just… a dream.”

( _And it does not do_ , she reminds herself, _to dwell on dreams_.)

She can feel Red’s eyes on her, knows they’re probably tinged with that same spark of curiosity that’s been there since Regina had first come to in her bed, not quite a week ago. Regina doesn’t meet her eyes yet, though, instead busies herself with cleaning up her face (even if only a little) and adjusting her position beneath the blankets. In the end she really doesn’t move a whole lot from where she started — rolls mostly onto her back, shoves a second pillow beneath her and straightens the blankets out marginally — but the effort feels herculean given how little energy she has on reserves at any given time these days. 

It’s not that she’s not grateful. She is, immensely so, for all that Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter have done to help keep her alive these last several days. Regina’s memory of the day or so before they’d found her is admittedly hazy, patchy at best. She supposes the fever’s to blame for that, but that had broken after she’d been here little more than a day, against a gauntlet of Mrs. Lucas’ relentless hovering.

It’d taken the combined efforts of shelter and good sense to withdraw the fever from her body like poison from a bite. Warmth against the winter, to sweat it out; a fresh change of clothes she’d sorely needed, to ward her against dirt and filth and grime; a damp cloth against her skin, to counter the tremors and shakes; a steady onslaught of tea and broth, herbs and oils, and a whole host of other vile-tasting concoctions from Mrs. Lucas’ precious medicinal chest to inch the sick up from the depths of Regina’s lungs.

She’s… better — not in full health, not by a long shot — but Regina is better than she has been in at least three weeks, and her life has value far beyond the comprehension of what Snow might ever deem it.

It’s not until Red sinks down at the foot of the bed and starts toying with the frayed edges of one of the blankets that Regina finally allows herself eye contact. She’s… wary, of these women, even after all they’ve done to help her when she can’t quite help herself. They’re still pretty much perfect strangers to her, beyond names and a few mannerisms, and… they’re in the North. The Outskirts, yes, but still north, still with full knowledge of who she is and the price on her head (heart), and, well.

Broken as her heart is, she _does_ still need to protect it — either until spring arrives and she can start putting the pieces back together, or until winter destroys all she holds most dear and makes her _bleed_ until there’s absolutely nothing fucking left.

These days, she’s really not sure which she’d prefer.

(She does, she _does_ , but she can neither hope nor grieve, and as a result her heart turns itself hollow, just so it doesn’t bleed.)

“You’ve been napping most of the morning,” Red ventures after a too-long (admittedly awkward) silence. “Are you hungry at all?”

Regina drops her gaze, just for a second, but there’s knowing in Red’s eyes when she looks up again, and the cough that stutters out of her as a result is equal parts forced and genuine. “Not right now?” she says, sounding more tired than she thinks she feels (it’s hard to tell anymore, she’s been mostly bed-ridden for a week, and every part of her body feels heavy all the time). “I’m not ungrateful, don’t take it that way, I just — breakfast this morning was like climbing a cliff,” she huffs, sinking back into the pillows at the mere memory. “I kind of want to be awake for a little while before I try putting real food in my stomach again.”

Red just nods, amiable to the last, and Regina wonders where the line between courtesy and curiosity falls — and if Red has been straddling it this whole time. “There’s still a few hours before Granny will want to open up the oils again, but you still have your water, and your tea,” Red reminds her, nodding at the small bedside table. “Is there — can I get you anything else? Like a book or something? We don’t exactly have a palace library to choose from,” she says, and it’s a joke, it’s meant as a joke, one that has Regina trying to hide a flinch at the memories that it provokes. “But we have a few, if — if you want a way to pass the time, while you rest,” Red adds, and the touch of melancholic disappointment in her tone does not go unnoticed by Regina. “I figured you’re probably sick of… well, being sick.”

“Understatement of the year,” Regina mutters dryly, shifting slightly against the pillows to try and relieve the uncomfortable twinge in her lower back. “I don’t think I could focus long enough to get through much of anything,” she admits with a sigh. The sickness may be letting up in her lungs and throat, but she’s still prone to dizzy spells when she sits up too far or has to stand, wobble her way over to the chamber pot with Red’s help.

(Regina is trying, very hard, not to let her pride get in the way of her gratitude for the ease with which Red offers her assistance.)

It’s that, though — the too-kind heart brimming, spilling out of a girl still too-young to be hardened against the world ( _you were, long before her age_ , the back of her mind supplies, and Regina resists the urge to wrap an arm around her middle) — which prompts Regina into closing her eyes, just for a moment, and give real thought to Red’s gentle prompting. They’ve already done so much for her — continue to do so, while refusing to let her even speak of repaying debts — that it’s… hard, Regina discovers, to figure out what else it is she might need.

(Want is simply not an option. Want is, regrettably, the ghost of a man haunting Sherwood.)

“You know,” Regina muses after a moment, eyes fluttering open tiredly to stare at the ceiling overhead, “the one thing I could really use is a proper wash. Or even just… pieces of one,” she sighs, shifting her gaze back to Red. “I hardly remember the last time I could sneak one between snowstorms, and all I’ve really been able to do while I’ve been here is just sort of… wipe off the places that need it most. I feel like a snake that needs to shed its skin.”

Red’s cheeks flush pink at the remark, her gaze dropping to her lap as she shifts uncomfortably on the bed, but Regina hardly has time to notice it, much less dwell on it, before Red’s regaining her composure and offering her a smile that’s just a little bit tight, around the edges. “I don’t blame you,” she says, giving Regina a once-over. “Not like that — I didn’t mean anything by it,” she adds hastily. “I just meant — between the forest and the snow and sweating the fever out, and with all the oils Granny’s been using, you can’t possibly feel clean or comfortable.”

Regina nods, vision a touch fuzzy around the edges. “Do you have more damp cloths, and some soap, maybe, so I can —“

“— so you can… what?” Red half-drawls, a hint of teasing in her tone. “Waste energy you don’t have on something that’s only marginally better than what you’ve already been doing?”

“I don’t see what other choice I have,” Regina counters thinly. Her chest is starting to feel tight around the edges again, a sure sign that the oils are wearing off and Regina just wants to wipe down, if only so the stinging turns into tingling under a fresh coat. “I don’t have the energy to — standing is worse than eating,” she explains, frustrated. Her temper’s getting the best of her, she knows, temper she really can’t afford, shouldn’t even really have the energy for, to be honest, but Red’s not stupid, Regina’s figured out that much. “Walking’s not really an option, I can’t even do it without your help most of the time —“

“I can still… do that, you know,” Red offers, a soft, tentative thing that has her digging her teeth into her lower lip. “I can draw the bath, I can help you get there and back, I can —“ She stops, chews at her lip harder than before as she gives Regina a once-over, and this time it’s Regina’s turn to flush at the thing that’s implied.

It’s not pride, it’s not, Red is not Robin, Red is a stranger to her, Red is a girl, a woman with a gentle touch and surprisingly strong grip for seventeen, Red has been playing nursemaid all week like she’s glad to do it and _you’re all heart on two feet, you know_ is a distorted echo in her ears, shaking loose the parts inside of her Robin had taken up root.

Red is _her_ , before Snow sent someone to cut out Regina’s heart, and where Red has the luxury of wearing her heart on her sleeve Regina cannot afford anything more than to bury that person down deep and wish to be her again.

Not wish. Wishes are for children, and now more than ever, Regina is irrevocably not a child anymore.

“You can handle the more… intimate parts,” Red tries after another (increasingly) awkward lull. “I wouldn’t try to — You’ll feel better,” she promises, sounding a little exasperated even as she scoots up on the bed. “You’ll get out of bed for a while, and you’ll be clean, and if you let me help you then you’ll save your strength for when you really need it,” she reasons. “Honestly, it might help you heal a little faster, and that’s… what we’re all aiming to do here, isn’t it? Get you better? So you don’t — you don’t have to stay here,” Red says, and there’s that touch of melancholy again, forcing her eyes down and away. A beat, and then, “So you can go home?”

And… _there’s_ the crux of Regina’s troubles: she doesn’t exactly have a home to go back to, now, does she?

(She’s spent the last two months wondering if she ever really did.)

Too late, Red seems to realize her mistake, face pinching in pain (not pity, it’s not pity, Regina is making assumptions, it’s one of her worst qualities, she knows). She draws in a breath, probably to apologize or something equally uncomfortable ( _unnecessary_ , Regina thinks, and the kinder parts of her start to rise closer to the surface), but Regina stops her before she can gain any traction. “You’re right,” she says, reaching up to brush some of her hair off of her forehead. “It _will_ help me feel better, even if it’s just a little, and I’ll probably end up being a much less… irritable invalid, in the long run.”

The corner of Red’s mouth quirks into a smile, and Regina resolutely ignores the way intuition flares like damned hope in her chest, at the mere notion that she might actually be more than simply welcome here. “You’re not an invalid,” Red insists. “You’re sick. That’s not the same thing.”

“I think at this point we’re just splitting hairs,” Regina drawls, coughing weakly into the sleeve of her (Red’s) nightgown.

“Drink some more of your water,” Red instructs, clearly ignoring her as she rises to her feet. “I’ll work on drawing the bath and…” Here she stops, brow knit and eyes narrowed as she glances between the bed and the quaint little bathing room off the back of the cottage. “I’d say you could start getting out of those clothes, but I don’t want you to be cold, while we walk, or feel rushed if you are. Besides, I’m not sure you’ll be able to without me,” she adds, and it’s not teasing, not really, but a hint of something akin to it. “Even if you could, that’d probably use up what little energy you have, and then I’d have to carry you in there, which I can do, obviously — I mean, I’ve done it once already — but I figure that’s probably a lot more... up close and personal than either of us would be comfortable with.”

Regina purses her lips against an involuntary smile. “A bit.”

It’ll be a while longer still before Red’s ready to help her into the other room, so Regina settles back against the pillows with a sigh and reaches for her water cup, downing most of the second half of it in a series of long, half-desperate gulps. She wonders, idly, if this was what brought her to them — if she’d seen the well, from a distance, and stumbled her way toward it before either giving it up as a hallucination or running out of energy. Her memory of that day is full of holes though, and the most she can determine is that she is lucky, really, to have finally succumbed to sickness where she did.

Even if they are in the North Kingdom.

Robin would pitch a fit if he knew, and rightfully so, even though she hadn’t ended up here out of intention or design.

(After all, they have always played this game abiding by the same code — the same rules that become guidelines, when bent.)

Cup settled back on the bedside table, Regina opts to rest her eyes a little to try and counteract the inevitable dizzy spell that will wash over her when Red helps her to her feet. The cottage is… quiet, here at the edge of the village: the neighbors are within sight, but much too far for Regina to discern any voices or echos of work being done. There’s been a distinct lack of trilling with the dawn, these past few mornings, the birds long since having migrated away from the north for the season (she knew they would, she _told_ him they would). Currently, without conversation, the only sounds playing at her ears are the ones of her hosts at work: Red in the next room, drawing her a bath; Mrs. Lucas out in front, stoking the fire until she’s satisfied with its answering _pop-crack-thunk-hiss_ , and the gentle clatter of spoon against bowl while she mixes batter for her sales.

She’s already got a batch of something in the oven, Mrs. Lucas — the scent of sugar wafts down the hall, distinct even to Regina’s stuffed nose — and it has Regina’s mind drifting, sinking back into a memory that’s not quite a year old, hovering at the place where Sherwood and Nottingham meet. It’s not the same though: the wood burning here is oak, not pine or yule; Mrs. Lucas’ bread evokes something sweet, where that of Tahlia’s father had not; eucalyptus seeps into Regina’s skin and washes away any last traces of cedar, or willow the forest had imbedded into her before.

This is not home, not even close, but the sickness still stuck to her senses has her mind blurring the lines between the two, turning into the dark once more to seek out that which she’s lost…

She’s not even aware that she’s dozed off again until Red is gently shaking her awake. “Hey,” Red murmurs, brushing some hair off of Regina’s brow (and it’s the first time since they brought her here, Regina realizes later, that she hasn’t startled to the point of panic upon being woken). “You still want that bath?”

Blearily, Regina blinks herself to full consciousness again and nods, jaw cracking with the force of her yawn. As expected, the room spins a bit when she manages to push herself upright, has her fumbling for the sheet and blankets to push them down and away. Her stomach flips, just a hair, when she swings her legs over the side of the bed, and that’s… not the sickness, she determines, or the distinct pangs of Hunger pleading with her to eat something. There’s nothing to be done for it but it’s mild, not enough to have her clamoring for a basin or bucket.

Still, her vision swims, blurs when she makes to settle a foot on the floor, and she’s reaching out half-blind for the hand she knows Red has held out in offering to steady herself before standing. It’s not quite as cold as it was when she first woke this morning — the fire’s been burning long enough to spread warmth through the rest of the cottage — but Regina’s knees still quake under her own weight, muscles straining. Red’s arm is looped through hers before Regina can even contemplate taking an actual step forward, her murmured _I’ve got you_ unnecessary. Regina trusts in this if nothing else — Red’s steady grip and strength in keeping Regina upright and moving. Not that she’s had much choice, really, but the rhythm they’ve found together over the last several days has been...comforting, and enabled Regina to direct what little strength she has to where she needs it most, until she’s gained all of it back.

Pride is not a luxury she can afford anymore.

Slowly but surely, they make their way into the bathing room, Red settling Regina down gently into a chair next to the tub. The water must be nigh scalding, for all the steam that spirals up off the surface, and it’s _intoxicating_ to breathe it in, let it clear out space in her lungs, her throat, her nose until she can smell the salt and lavender of the soap set out nearby. No, not lavender: that’s a trick of sleep-memory again, pulling pieces from the waterfall. Regina pushes it down and away, forces herself to stay present and curls her toes in anticipation. “I must’ve been out longer than I thought. I can’t imagine how long it took you to fill and keep the water hot.”

Another flush to Red’s cheeks but this one’s different — _pleased_ , by the looks of it, and Regina feels a twinge of guilt that she cannot trust more, in order to give. “It’s barely more than halfway full,” Red dismisses, gesturing for her to starting removing her underthings, first. “But the heat — that one’s a fun little trick Granny taught me when I was eleven. You have to get kind of creative, living this far out, but I’m sure you’ve come up with plenty of your own, out there.”

Regina merely _hmm_ s in idle non-reply and Red seems to take the hint; beyond a lack of trust and an overdeveloped sense of paranoia, Regina has never really been one to lay her life out like an open book. The next couple of minutes pass in general silence while Red helps her stand again, looks to Regina for silent permission one more time and makes quick, tender work of the nightgown once it’s granted. Any little flare of embarrassment is quickly extinguished once Regina reminds herself that there’s very little of her at this point that Red hasn’t seen, and the rest wouldn’t exactly be unfamiliar territory.

(Red keeping her eyes focused on Regina’s face, arms, legs while she helps Regina up and over the edge of the tub helps a little, too.)

Modesty, too, has become a commodity Regina cannot afford, and the waterfall cascades its way to the forefront of her mind again, bearing not-so-coy flirting and a rush that echoes the hiss that spills from her lips when she starts to submerge into (seriously, _how_?) still near-scalding water. “I’ve got you,” Red says again, grip firm on Regina’s bicep. “Go slow, don’t rush into it. Give your body time to adjust.”

Regina nods even as another hiss slithers its way between gritted teeth. Shock crackles through her body with each inch she sinks down into the water, but each new wave is duller than the last, like she’s becoming numb against its effects the longer she’s in it. At long last though, she finally reaches the bottom, hands gripping the edges of the tub fretfully for a half moment before she feels steady enough to stay sitting upright unaided. Her eyes slip shut as her muscles relax, loosen against the heat, and it’s a very near thing, she thinks, that she doesn’t actually nod off again.

“You know,” Red muses after a few minutes (and there’s a rippling movement in the water, she must’ve dropped something in there — a cloth, or cup perhaps), “all things considered, you’ve still got some decent muscles on you. It hurt, when you grabbed me that first night.”

“I’m sorry — _mmm_ , fuck,” Regina gasps, split between intuitive apology and the delicious burn that spreads across her scalp when Red pours a cup of water over her head.

“I’m just saying,” Red says, laughing lightly in the face of Regina’s attempted apology, “that if you weren’t so sick, you could probably hold your own if we ever got into a fight.”

“Is that something you were planning on?”

“No,” Red snorts, pouring another cup, two more over Regina’s head until she’s wet all over. “You don’t take compliments very well, do you?”

“More that I don’t really know what to do with them,” Regina sighs, eyes fluttering open against light that filters in through the lone window before adjusting to the softer, dimmer flicker of candlelight. “It’s not like I get them very often.” A beat, and then, marginally annoyed, “I could take you.”

Red laughs at her, openly, actually fucking laughs at her, and the fact that there’s not a touch of malice in it has Regina side-eyeing her in utter confusion. “Keep dreaming,” Red quips, and there’s a finality to her tone that has Regina directing her energy somewhere other than a pointless argument.

Again they lapse into silence, but it’s more comfortable each time, particularly now that they’re otherwise occupied. Red definitely thought of everything, or near everything, Regina thinks, though she couldn’t pinpoint anything missing at the moment. There’s enough soap (gods, _soap_ , Regina doesn’t even know how long it’s been since she’s seen any, wonders if they’d traveled west for this or found a way to make their own) to lather up against damp cloth several times over — more than enough to scrub herself down once, twice if she really wanted.

And Regina doesn’t want to be wasteful — has never, _never_ been able to afford it, but damn, if the prospect of scrubbing her skin a near-raw pink isn’t fucking tempting.

She sticks with the one for now though, accepts a soapy, damp cloth from Red and sets to work washing everything from her hips down while Red turns her attention to the veritable rat’s nest Regina’s hair has become (not… _quite_ so bad, now that it’s wet, but still). The soap feels particularly good against the soles of her feet, callused and travel-worn as they are, and Regina finds she’s actually kind of looking forward to the inevitable pruning, and the way wrinkles will give way to softness along her skin.

The proper scrub-down of everything hip-down (and the second pass between her thighs), does sap a lot of her already dwindling energy out of her, though — enough so that she drapes the cloth over the edge of the tub while Red works not-soap through her hair (some sort of oil, maybe? Regina’s not entirely sure but it smells like mint, and it’s not important enough to ask after). Whatever it is that she’s using does wonders against every knot and tangle in her hair, has tension melting out of her head and her shoulders slumping in relief.

Red lets it sit a little, in Regina’s hair, and shifts her attention to fulfilling Regina’s silent request without any fuss. Her hands are surprisingly firm against Regina’s shoulders and back as she sweeps lathered soap across Regina’s skin. It’s… nice, really — more than nice, has Regina’s eyes fluttering shut with each knot Red manages to work out (and there too, a memory interjects itself, the soft skittering of fingertips and gentle graze of lips across her skin drawing heat to the surface).

For the first time since before she left Sherwood, Regina actually feels… relaxed — not entirely, there’s not enough (could never be enough) trust for that, but at ease to a degree nonetheless.

Red hesitates once she reaches Regina’s side, though, fingertips featherlight along her ribs before she even ventures to drag the cloth across them. “Your bruise is healing okay,” Red observes, murmuring soothingly at Regina’s slightly pained noise once Red touches the cloth to the spot. “It’ll still take awhile before it goes away — weeks probably, but it’s mostly brown now, which is a lot better than it was at the beginning of the week. Though I think Granny might be running low on that ointment she’s been using, so one of us will have to make a trip to market if she decides you still need more — _ow_ , hey, fuck, why are you—”

Regina’s eyes snap open at the exclamation, mind catching up to instinct as she glances sidelong at where her hand is wrapped around Red’s forearm iron-tight, nails stinging into her skin. There’s tension all along the tendons in Red’s hand, fingers still, curled almost unnaturally — like an extension of the threat, in Regina’s touch. The cloth hits the now-warm water with a discordant _splat_ , and without it Red’s hand hovers over Regina’s middle, fingers just shy of touching the smaller-than-it-probably-should-be-and-still-somehow-growing curve of Regina’s belly.

“Okay,” Red huffs, jerking her arm a little to try and tug it out of Regina’s grasp. “Okay, I won’t touch — you can do it,” she says, edge creeping its way into her voice and Regina is shaking, _shaking_ against the aftershocks of instinct, where did that even _come from_? “You can let me go.”

She can’t, she honestly can’t, not at first, not until she’s able to draw a steady breath and swallow down around the surge of defensiveness, not until the thundering of her heart quiets enough for her to think logically. Red is not going to hurt her. Red is not working for the queen. Red has done nothing but help nurse Regina slowly back to health for days. Red was the one who found her and insisted they help her in the first place. Red is kind, and young, and too goddamn naive for the world they live in, and Red is not the reason, Regina finally admits to herself, that provoked Regina’s fury.

Slowly, she eases her grip on Red’s arm, and then lets go all too quickly. She doesn’t miss the sharp inhale when Red shakes out her arm, or the muttered _I was only trying to help_ under Red’s breath. But she can’t — it’s too dangerous to linger on the instinct that had consumed her, leads her down a path to spring that she cannot commit to following. And that leaves her stuck here, in the thick of winter where everything goes to die.

(If she does not allow herself to hope, she resigns herself to the anticipation of bitter grief.)

The whole near-altercation leaves Regina in a rather foul mood, finds her surprisingly… angry, and that too, blocks her path forward, spins her around and forces her to look back at the mistakes she’s made up to now. She’s not alone in having made them, she knows — Robin shut her out before she ever had the chance to make one in all of this — but she feels decidedly more… responsible for her predicament than she is comfortable shifting it onto him. She had time, after she realized she was with child, time before the first snowfall to swallow her infernal pride and seek out shelter for the good of both her and her child. She just… didn’t.

The kinder part of her heart tries to grant her a little grace: she _did_ try, she made her way back to Sherwood digging her heels in the dirt the whole fucking way but she did actually _try_ to be the bigger person and take steps toward fixing what Robin (they) had broken. She’d taken too long, though, and found the campsite nearly barren and mostly broken down, and that, Anger spits in the face of Kind, is where she refuses to accept any more blame.

He’d ignored her warnings, and pushed her away, and then had the audacity to follow through on her advice, long after she’d left.

Yeah, she kind of hates him.

(Doesn’t. Hates, with every fiber of her being, that she doesn’t.)

She’s found herself out of resources and luck ever since — has become a goddamn liability even in the most remote corners of some of the kingdoms, and Regina wonders if maybe it’s just… better this way. Maybe it’s a _good_ thing that she ended up getting so fucking sick.

“You’re not very good at giving compliments either, you know that?”

Regina starts, jarred out of her brooding as Red rinses out the last of whatever it was she’d put into Regina’s hair, water sluicing down her back and leaving her hair smooth (soft, most likely, when dry). “What?”

Red quirks an eyebrow at her as she starts to clean up the various bottles and cloth they’d used, wringing out the water over the tub. “I mean, it was sort of backhanded,” she says, voice pitching a little high like she’s trying to tease, but is still testing the waters where Regina’s stormy mood is concerned. “You could’ve just said you were glad you ended up meeting us, you didn’t have to… I don’t know, you just didn’t have to say it like that,” she says, and that tentatively friendly pitch is gone, replaced by something softer, more hurt.

Only then does Regina realize she’d said the last part of her bitter musings out loud. “That’s not — I wasn’t talking about you,” she mutters. “I just thought that…” And in the space of a breath, Anger warps her voice into something dark, twisted, has her hands curling, gripping around the edges of the tub again as she fixes her gaze forward and steadfastly refuses to look down at her own body. “Even assuming I survive this, my body’s been through enough the last couple of months that getting sick is probably more of a blessing than anything else.”

“Why do you think—”

“Because,” Regina laughs, a hollow, bitter thing lacking any warmth, “it means the chances of this child surviving long enough to even _meet_ the miserable life that awaits it are almost non-existent.” The words taste like ash in her mouth even as she’s still forcing them out, hope clashing with grief across the great divide but she _has_ to set her expectations well below it, in order to avoid disappointment at all costs.

(She knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she _cannot_ survive another heartbreak.)

For a few moments, though, it seems like Red has the good sense not to dignify Regina’s little outburst with a response. She doesn’t breathe a word while she finishes cleaning up, works to gently pry Regina’s fingers away from the edge of the tub and pulls her carefully up to her feet, helps her up and over and out of the bathwater. It’s not until she’s wrapped a robe around Regina’s shivering form and started to squeeze out some of the excess water from her hair with a dry towel that Red proves her wrong — spectacularly, horribly fucking wrong.

“If that’s… a thing you’re really worried about,” Red ventures and oh, oh no, Regina does not, does not like where this is going, really just wants to stop fucking talking about it because this is not going to end well otherwise, “there’s a woman, about three villages over, if you keep heading east, maybe a little south? She’s really good about making sure children are well taken care of: she runs this place, with her husband’s sister, that takes in—”

“I am _not_ ,” Regina seethes, voice dipping dangerously low as she snatches the towel out of Red’s hands (ignores the way Red startles, gasps and jumps back half a step), “going to just drop my child off on someone’s doorstep and never look back. It’s not any better than leaving it for the fucking wolves to devour, what kind of _monster_ do you think I am?”

It’s as good as if Regina had struck her across the face: Red flinches visibly, eyes clouding with hurt as her brow knits in confusion (and probably, Regina guesses, some suppressed anger in there too, but she doesn’t know Red well enough to tell for certain). She swallows hard, audibly, opens her mouth and then closes it again, looking torn between tears and retaliation, but she regains enough composure to draw in a breath and call out, not once breaking eye contact with Regina, “Granny? Can you come help me finish up in here, please?”

Well fuck.

Regret rears its ugly head while they stand there in heavy silence. Red will not touch her, doesn’t have a hand at her elbow to make sure she stays upright and Regina’s knees are not shaking, her energy somehow double what it had been, before the start of the bath. Adrenaline, that’s all it is, Regina’s pretty sure she’s going to collapse onto the nearest chair as soon as it wears off.

In an instant, she is standing at the fringes of camp looking over her shoulder at Robin for the last time, and her worst self finally catches up to his at long last.

(It’s nothing short of a miracle, she thinks, that their love lasted as long as it did.)

She knows — she _knows_ she’s being unfair, knows she’s letting Anger coil up all of that guilt and use it to lash out against her own failings. Red may know who she is but she knows next to nothing about the reality of Regina’s past, and had no way of knowing where the line was drawn in order to avoid crossing it. It’s unreasonable to expect otherwise, and where Kind carves out space for remorse, Anger has rage racing through Regina’s blood until she can hardly see straight.

It’s that — Anger’s blinding fury — which has Regina struggling to see truth or discern meaning in the subtle shifts in Red’s expression. She’s hurt by the assumption (accusation) Regina’s thrown at her, that much is obvious, and there are traces of her own fury there too, Anger bubbling just below the surface, Regina can see that now. But there’s something altogether… more, charged up beneath all of that, that Regina has trouble figuring out.

(Almost like Red had heard _monster_ directed against her, instead, and Regina would almost swear Red’s eyes change color, just for a split second, if not for a trick of the candlelight.)

“You can’t manage?” Mrs. Lucas sighs, crossing the threshold into the room. “I was just about to take the tarts over to the Turners.”

“I can manage just fine,” Red snaps, sounding a little indignant, and _there’s_ the seventeen-year-old again, irritated and defiant against authority. “I’m _asking_ if you’ll finish for me, _please_. I can take the order over to the Turners for you. I need a little fresh air, anyway.”

Mrs. Lucas’ gaze darts between them, Regina can see it out of the corner of her eye, and it’s nothing short of grace that she doesn’t argue. “Alright,” she agrees slowly, gaze settling on Red even as she takes a step toward Regina. “Don’t forget to collect the second half of the payment for me, yeah?” Red nods curtly and brushes briskly past her grandmother without so much as another word, and in the blink of an eye, she’s gone.

All of the breath leaves Regina in a rush, has her knees buckling just slightly but it’s enough to make her unsteady on her feet again. Quickly, she reaches for Mrs. Lucas — for Granny’s arm, both in an effort to stay upright and to distract her long enough to delay (prevent, Regina does not want to dwell on the bundle of anxious ache in her chest) any prying questions. “Dizzy,” she breathes, and it’s mostly the truth. “Can we—”

“You just stay tight to me, girl,” Granny sighs, tugging Regina closer. Slowly, she turns them both around, takes tentative steps forward and guides Regina gently back into the bedroom.

It is a very, very fucking near thing that Regina does not cry, but for the first time in almost a decade, she wonders if maybe the world would have been better off, if she’d simply let someone carve her heart out of her chest.

It would certainly hurt a hell of a lost less, she thinks, to still live without it.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He shouldn’t be here.

It matters little, in the end, that his destination is far, far removed from even the most remote of villages. He’s taken great pains to cover his tracks the whole journey out here — it’s part of why it’s taken him so long to get this far — but even that doesn’t count for much, should fate choose to be unkind. There’s still light left in the sky, dusk soft and muted against the stark, white-bright snow covering the landscape. If he’s missed anyone following him out here, they’ll still be able to track him to the end, and even if he arrives alone, there’s no guarantee there won’t be a welcoming party waiting for him.  
Even if he’s fortunate to avoid all of that, there’s no way he’ll be able to make it back to a village before nightfall. He’d taken little with him, when he left West End, only what he really needed, and supplies for a light source hadn’t been among them. He’ll be _lucky_ to find the scraps of what might have been left behind, after the service, and even with that he really doesn’t fancy navigating in near-dark, particularly when there’s no telling if a new snowstorm will start up overnight.

And, well, Robin is nothing if not impulsive, to the last, his plans only half-thought out and rushed in an effort to ensure victory. It’s how he ended up in this mess in the first place, and even when he’s endeavoring to set things right, to take sound advice and make something better of himself, he still finds ways to fail.

_Gods_ , he longs to hear Regina say _I told you so_.

Still, there’s little else for him to do but press onward and continue weaving his way through the treeline along the lane leading to the estate. The road isn’t clear — snow has fallen fresh, in the days since the service — but the dusting is nothing compared to the banks bracketing on either side. There’s simply so much _more_ of it out here away from the lane, snowline striking his shins each time he steps, sinks down deep. It makes covering his tracks harder, the closer he gets to the estate, leaves him more winded each pass and has the stitch in his side stinging something awful.

Eventually he grants himself a brief reprieve and leans against an elder tree to rest a spell. He’s less than an hour, at most, before night snuffs out the dusk-light and robs him of sight. If he can’t scrap together enough to craft some sort of torch to light his path back to the southeast, he’ll be forced to camp out overnight until sun-up and that’s… the _last_ thing he wants to do, to be perfectly honest. He wouldn’t even be considering it, if not for the prospect of being caught out in the cold and snow at night, and he’s not senseless or desperate enough to go stumbling blindly through barely-familiar forest in order to find his way back.

Perhaps this is part of his penance.

If that’s the case, he’ll gladly pay that price. As it is, he needs to make it up there first — he did come here for a reason, after all — before he can contemplate his next course of action. With a soft groan Robin pushes himself away from the tree and trudges his way toward the edge of the road. He finds purchase once more against another tree, gloves gripping bark in an effort to keep him half-hidden from any potential prying eyes. Slowly, very, _very_ fucking slowly, he cranes his head, neck round the tree and glances down the road in either direction, eyes squinting to discern any movement in the dim, snowy landscape.

There’s a glint, a glimmer of something all the way at the edge of the lane, right at the front of the estate just as the moon begins to peek up over the horizon that has Robin’s breath hitching, catching in his chest. It holds there, trapped between two lungs as his heart hammers, rattles, stutters to fight for its release, but he cannot let it go, not now, not until he’s sure that it’s not the sharp edge of a blade or buffed metal or steel, not until he’s unequivocally certain that no one lies in wait for him ( _you knew this was a possibility_ , the little John in his head reminds him, unsympathetic, _you shouldn’t have come_ ), not until he’s found a way up and around to flank the guard stationed at…

Huh.

It’s… stationary.

Whatever’s catching the light isn’t moving, not even slightly, not even close to the erratic twitching of a small animal or the careful shuffling of someone endeavoring to hide. Slowly Robin exhales, tension unspooling in his belly. He spares one last glance over his shoulder to ensure he’s still alone, still unfollowed before he creeps out into the road. Any tracks he leaves along the way will hardly be discernable to anyone who might happen upon them, but he sticks to the edge just in case, boots straddling the line between powder and frost as he walks up the last stretch of the lane toward the estate.  
His gait slows as he approaches, strides shorter and footsteps not quite as light until he finally comes to a stop in front of the imposing wrought iron gates, gaze fixing at last upon the source of the glinting light.

It’s a lock.

It’s a brand new, shining, immensely well-crafted lock, shackle looped through an equally new chain wrapped tight around the bars where the gates meet. He shouldn’t be surprised, he _isn’t_ surprised, not really — he knows full well there had been a small party here only days ago, not even a full week has passed — but Robin finds himself overcome with a sensation not unlike incredulity at the sight of them. He can’t believe Nottingham went to the trouble of actually _locking him out_ of what is technically still rightfully his.

As if locks could keep him out.

Gods, but that man is thick.

(Though, to be fair, it’s not him Nottingham wants to keep out now, is it?)

Lips curving into a smile, Robin stifles a chuckle and shifts his attention to the stone wall surrounding the estate. It’s still in reasonably good shape, all things considered, but there are patches along the front wall that have begun to crumble against the elements, weathered and worn. Easy targets for thieves, but he can’t imagine anyone would even think to bother anymore. He’s sure the place has been thoroughly ransacked since he was last here; there’s probably nothing of value left. And Robin, well, Robin had lost the last treasure to this place long ago.

Next to last.

His heart twinges slightly in his chest at the thought of her, and Robin strides quickly along the outer wall toward the corner in an effort not to let it stop him in his tracks. He’s positive she’d be angry with him for being here— well, more angry than she already is, but that’s another matter entirely. He is, after all, stretching, bending their rule to the point of breaking it beyond a guideline. If he strays beyond the northwest corner of the estate he’ll be venturing into the North Kingdom, and Regina had been right: it’s not any safer there than it is here.

He wonders, idly, what it would be like not to have to look over his shoulder all the time. He’d certainly be less paranoid, less stressed, but his skills would fall by the wayside, his senses less sharp and movements less quick, agile. If there’s any benefit to living his life outside the law, he supposes the ability to avoid being caught in crossfire is one of them.

Tobias Wright is the hot lick of guilt, shame along Robin’s spine, searing up to become shadow looming overhead. Robin halts, damn near stumbles just shy of the corner where two walls meet and squeezes his eyes shut against the dark. There’s no light to be found on the horizon, and his future holds nothing but reminders of just how _badly_ he has failed. The shadow will become an abyss, catch and consume what is left of the house of Wright— fire turned to ash, and leaving nothing but bone.

Forget looking out for his own: lately Robin has done _nothing_ but destroy everything he touches, ripping apart families, one at a time. Shadow chokes a gasp out of him, has him fumbling fitfully for the wall, palm slapping against stone for purchase. This land bears his blood but he is not of it, not anymore. He has long since grown beyond the reckless abandon of childhood, has split and stretched and sprinted his way out of Shadow toward the light.

He is truthful, righteous, and good.

He is not his father, cannot, _will_ not be his father, and if he must be beholden to a title at all he chooses that of his own making.

_It would be a shame to see Robin Hood die._

He came here for a reason.

One measured breath, another, three more before Robin opens his eyes, blinking rapidly against the ever-dimming light. He doesn’t have _time_ for this ( _you say that like it even matters_ , John scoffs), and regardless of where he goes from here Robin at least needs to do what he came here to do before night falls good and proper over Misthaven. The stone is too slick to climb all the way up, but there’s a section right along the top, near the corner pillar, that’s started to disintegrate, lowering the top of the wall for a short span.

Quickly, Robin takes in his surroundings, surveys the trees crowded around the outside of this corner of the estate before deciding upon an oak with a few low, sturdy-looking branches. There’s one, slightly higher up, that will clear the crumbled corner, and while it’s not quite long enough for him to cross over the wall on foot, it shouldn’t be too difficult, he thinks, to traverse the branch by hand and hook his boots over the wall.

He takes a moment to make sure his arrows are secure, digs a long piece of twine from his satchel and bundles them carefully before tying off the other end to the strap slung over his shoulder. Satisfied that it’ll hold, Robin begins his ascent, takes his time in selecting each branch he reaches for, moves slower than normal to ensure his feet are properly placed. Which— alright, he _can_ afford the extra time here, at least today, tonight. He’s not going anywhere else, not until he sees the sun cresting, come morning, and he cannot allow Shadow to dictate his pace.

For once, the sense of urgency feels at least partially warranted, but here too, Robin sees Shadow’s hand in the wake of Guilt’s haste.

_What use is surviving if we end up getting caught?_

_What’s the point in evading capture if we end up freezing to death?_

He swallows down around bitter bile and forces himself forward, reaches for the highest branch and adjusts his grip more than is strictly necessary before swinging out, legs dangling above the ground. Instantly the skin along his side stretches and stings until it damn near _burns_ , and it takes nearly all of his focus not to release his grip on the branch. A hiss slithers out between gritted teeth, another accompanied by a slight huff, and every movement as he traverses the branch is like needles prickling, puncturing his skin, breath sharp and hot in his nose, mouth, chest.

One hand over the other, again and again until he’s close enough to swing up and over the edge. It takes him three tries to even get a decent swing going — _fuck_ he’s been out of commission too long — but he manages, hooks his boots up and over the top of the wall and tugs himself forward, back arching slightly to help propel him forward and— 

“ _Shit_ ,” he chokes out, too loud to be called anything close to a whisper. He does fall, feet touching, landing on the other side of the wall, but he’s on his knees in an instant, hand clutching at his side against the sharp stab of pain that lances through him and he cannot _breathe_ , shit, shit, shit.

This was a really stupid fucking idea.

It was stupid to leave West End before he’d fully recovered. It was stupid to travel halfway across the goddamn kingdom on foot while still nursing an injury. It was stupid not to bring something with him he could use to pick a lock, stupid not to just go back to camp first, stupid to come up here alone— stupid to come up here at all. _You don’t need to be here_ , John mutters, the echo of his voice crawling across Robin’s skin, and every instinct in him pushes back.

He doesn’t need to be here, and he doesn’t want to be here, but he absolutely _has_ to be here first, before anywhere else.

Here is where he faces Shadow down, and leaves a ghost behind.

After a moment or two to catch his breath, Robin grits his teeth against the pain and pushes himself to his feet, wincing when he takes a step forward. He’s aggravated the wound, he’s absolutely certain, and of the poor choices he could lament he thinks this — choosing to leave West End with so little, even by the way of medical supplies — is the one he’ll allow himself to dwell upon. If it’s broken open fresh he has enough to clean it and redress it but nothing to close it up with again, and if that’s the case then making it back to camp quickly is more imperative than before.

Gods, he’s so fucking tired.

It’s been far, far too long since he’s had a proper rest, and while he can’t imagine getting one within the walls of the manor he wouldn’t care at all about staying the night here if he knew he wouldn’t wake alone, come sunrise.

Regina.

He longs, yearns, fucking _aches_ with every last scrap of his soul to feel her flush against him once more, breath warm against his skin, heartbeat steady in sleep, but no amount of light will grant him such a gift.

Only time, and grace, can keep his hope alive, and neither of those is within his reach unless he keeps moving forward tonight.

Fingers flexing against his side, Robin shuffles through the snow piling up within the estates’ walls. The plot of land he seeks isn’t too far up, less than a five minute walk even with his slower pace; by the time he reaches the much smaller wrought iron gate the pain in his side has diminished considerably even if it hasn’t subsided entirely. There’s no lock here, no fresh set of chains wrapped between the bars. Even the old latch has broken off by now, leaving the gate slightly ajar, and while it opens with relative ease it does not do so quietly, the awkward high-low pitch of rust downright grating against his ears.

The cemetery feels much… smaller than it used to, fence boxing in a small plot of graves just off the southwest side of the manor. It’s not, obviously — Robin simply occupies more space than he used to, at fourteen — but there are more headstones here than there were when he left. Each pathway between graves is more narrow than before, headstones weathered, worn and crumbling after years of neglect. More than anything though, Robin thinks it’s the snow that makes the space feel more crowded, piled high around each marker until even the ghosts are buried beneath.

Of the small multitude of headstones erected throughout the graveyard, only a few have stood up reasonably well to the elements, and that has more to do with time than anything else. Two of them stand side by side, in the upper right corner: one, he’s no interest in giving even the slightest attention to, but the other… The other he’ll stop off to visit in the morning before he departs.

Tonight, he cares about only one, and it’s with an uneasy flip-skip of his heart that Robin sets off not for the pair of graves in the corner but the one just beneath it. The fresh mound is still obvious even beneath a blanket of snow, making it easy to avoid treading upon. It’s here, between a body buried and a stone sunk into the ground, that Robin takes a knee, cloak fanning out around him like wings etched into the snow.

This man— this _ghost_ , really, has cost him far, far too much, and Robin cannot find it in him to mourn his murder. As the last vestiges of light cling to the snow, Robin reaches out a gloved hand, tremors rippling through his arm, to trace the lettering carved into the stone and— 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He halts at the sound of the voice somewhere in front of him, on the other side of the headstone. His hand hovers just centimeters away from touching glove to stone, but where the last flip-skip of his heart had left him anxious this one does nothing but put him at ease. “Stay where you are,” another voice commands, this one coming from behind him, and the corner of Robin’s mouth twitches up at the sound of it. “Hood down. Hands where we can see them. Don’t even try reaching for that bow.”

It’s a near thing that Robin doesn’t actually laugh at that but he does as instructed, reaches up and grabs the edges of his hood, eyes flicking up in search of the person in front of him. His gaze lands, locks onto the weapon pointed directly at him, follows the arrow’s point all the way back to the bow that holds it, and behind it, the man who wields it. “Believe me,” he murmurs, pushing his hood back, down and away as he meets the man’s eyes, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Slowly, very, very fucking slowly, the bow is lowered until the arrow’s no longer pointed straight at him, and before Robin stands all six feet and curly hair of Little John.

“Unbelievable,” John mutters, seemingly unable to look away. “You’re not— you’re fucking unbelievable.”

From behind him Robin can hear the rapid-fire squish-crunch of snow underfoot as the other person comes up and around to get a better look at him. The very second Will Scarlet’s gaze lands upon him Robin feels very much the ghost he’d come here to bury. “The _fuck_ are you doing here?”

“I’d’ve thought it obvious,” he says, struggling to keep his voice light as his gaze shifts to the headstone situated between them. “I came to pay my respects, which… I’d hope is what you’re doing here as well because if you’re not then I have some follow-up questions.”

“ _You_ have questions?” Will echoes, voice a bit too thin for Robin’s liking. “John, the idiot has questions.”

“Yeah, they’ll have to wait,” John says shortly, depositing the arrow back into his quiver and tucking his bow away. “Pretty sure we get to ask ours first.”

“We haven’t heard a word from you for _weeks_ ,” Will interjects, voice pitching a touch high, “and suddenly here you are out of fucking thin air—”

“I know,” Robin says. “I didn’t send word, I didn’t want to— I can understand how you’d be a little upset—”

“A little upset?” John echoes incredulously, and his voice strains a bit higher, too. He starts to speak again and then stops, rubs a gloved hand over his mouth as he narrows his eyes down at where Robin’s still kneeling. “You know,” he muses, dry and derisive and barely concealing the true magnitude of his fury, “I shouldn’t be surprised. Took you look enough to own up to the fact that you were a _jackass_ to Regina. Of course you wouldn’t immediately grasp how fucking _angry_ we might be with you for a stunt like this.”

“It wasn’t a _stunt_ ,” Robin says sharply, rocking back on his heels to help push himself to his feet. “You’d know that if you’d give me even five minutes to explain before jumping down my throat— ow, _fuck_ ,” he half-gasps, nearly doubling over at the white-hot, _searing_ pain along his side. He clamps a hand over it on instinct, the other reaching out, fumbling in an attempt to find purchase.

He grips the top of the headstone a split-second before Will is upon him, grip strong, sure in an effort to help him stay upright. “What’s wrong?”

“‘s nothing,” Robin mutters, gritting his teeth once more.

He can still feel John’s eyes on him, but he’s quiet for a long beat before speaking again. “You always have been a really terrible fucking liar.”

Robin looks up at him a little too quickly, vision sparking with small stars as he tries to orient himself to the fading light. “Look,” he sighs, heavy and sharp as he tries to straighten up a bit with Will’s help. “You can give me the third degree and tell me _I told you so_ and clock me right in the fucking nose, for all I care, but can we maybe do this inside? I’d like to get out of this bloody fucking cold. I’ve not eaten since breakfast and it took me damn near all day to get up here on foot. I’m spent and it’s nearly dark as it is— I don’t fancy being caught out in the open at night, d’you?”

It’s a testament to a great many things that Robin has to say little else here in order to get John to agree. To how long they’ve known each other, certainly, but also so much more. To the irritating magnitude of Robin’s stubborn streak and the practiced ways in which John knows how to navigate it: a lack of tolerance, and an exercise in patience. To the circumstances in which John had first come into his life, and the circumstances under which John had become family to him. To the secret John has carried for well over a decade— the secret Robin has only ever dared share with one other soul.

To the last time either of them had set foot within these walls, and if anyone could help Robin bury the ghost he had come to leave behind, there’s no one better than John.

“You must really be desperate,” John mutters after a long spell of silence, and it takes far more effort than it probably should for Robin not to smile.

Next to him, Will breathes a little easier, almost like he’s grateful for the distraction. “D’you need help getting up there?”

Robin draws in a half-breath and hesitates, gaze lingering a little too long upon John. There’s something… off in Will’s delivery. The concern, that’s genuine, Robin has no doubt of that, but there’s something else there too, thinly veiled and simmering just beneath the surface. He knew Will would be upset (knew it, and did it anyway), but perhaps John was right.

Maybe John isn’t the only one who’s angry with him.

Still, that — and why — are questions that will have to wait, so Robin forces a weak smile in Will’s direction and shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. Why don’t you take the lead, show me where you’ve been staying?”

Will doesn’t need to be asked twice, and in Will’s haste Robin thinks he finds his answer.

Penance doesn’t even _begin_ to cover the price he needs to pay to set things right.

Gods, he really has gone and cocked things up good and proper, hasn’t he?

It’s not altogether that much warmer, once they set foot inside the manor walls — it is still winter, after all, and it’s not as if anyone actually inhabits the place anymore — but it’s enough of a reprieve from the way the wind had picked up just as they reached the doors at the back of the manor. They’ve been smart, his boys, and set up their makeshift little camp in the ruins of the servants quarters just off the kitchen. The rooms are a good deal smaller on the whole, in this part of the manor, but Robin counts that in their favor: it means the room they’d chosen is _blessedly_ warm when they step into it, hearth roaring with fire hot and bright.

Of course, there are plenty of other places they could’ve settled on, places with larger hearths and thicker mattresses, but he thinks they’d acted upon assumptions accordingly. Nottingham would have expected them to take advantage of the finer things, if they could really be called such after years of neglect, but he probably wouldn’t, like always, give much thought to their ability to make do with very little.

After all, who would choose to live such a life for themselves?

And… _there_ ’s his father, ostentatiously loud, front and center, and Robin feels his knees lock up, halfway into the room. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, rolls his shoulders back against the sudden crawling sensation over his skin and tries to remember how to breathe.

This is exactly why he came.

“—waited until Nottingham’s men cleared out before we moved in,” Will finishes explaining, recapturing Robin’s attention.

“How, uh— how long have you been here?” Robin ventures, moving toward the corner next to the hearth to deposit his things.

“Couple of days,” Will says, lingering in the doorway. “We were planning on leaving in the morning, unless you don’t think you’re up for it.”

“‘m fine,” Robin lies again, unable to fight back a grimace when he reaches back to unhook his bow.

“Terrible fucking liar,” John mutters from the edge of one of the beds, reaching down to tug off his boots.

“ _Fine_ ,” Robin reiterates thinly, throwing a look John’s way, which, of course, John promptly ignores. “I was planning on leaving myself, come sun-up. I’m glad not to have to do it alone.”

Neither of them has anything to offer, at that, and only the _pop-crackle-hiss_ of the wood breaking down in the fireplace cuts through the tension thickening in the air, smoke a blessed relief where it otherwise might be stifling. Still, Robin can’t really ignore the pain much longer — the stinging has twisted itself into a throbbing, as if the wound’s developed a heartbeat of its own — and he’s much, much slower at removing his satchel and quiver. His hands are shaking slightly when he makes to unfasten his cloak, breath shallow, uneven as his fingers fumble with the clasp.

“Right,” Will says suddenly, sounding surprisingly short considering how determinedly casual he’d been only moments ago. “I’m gonna duck back into the kitchen and see if I can’t pull together enough scraps for something suitable for a meal. My jaw feels like it’s going to fall off after all that dried out meat.”

Robin’s heart does an uncomfortable little flip-skip in reply, and it takes far more effort than he’s proud of not to sigh in exasperation at Will’s pathetic attempt at avoiding the issue. “Look, Will,” he ventures carefully, draping his cloak over the back of a wobbly little armchair, “about—”

“You do… _not_ want to finish that sentence, mate, trust me,” Will cuts in dryly, and the edge he’d kept concealed in the graveyard breaks through at long last. “Change out of your things, get off your feet. We have a long walk back to camp tomorrow for us to ask questions.”

Robin’s eyes narrow at that, jaw jumping in irritation. “If you’d just let me explain—”

“ _Let you_?” Will echoes, taking one, two quick, long strides into the room toward him. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to—”

“Will.”

In tandem, they each turn to look at John, and while he’s still settled on the edge of the bed his eyes are trained steadfastly on Will. There’d been something altogether kind, in the way he’d spoken Will’s name in warning, and that’s… new, and honestly a little disconcerting. John, Robin expects to be angry — he’s always had a short fuse when it comes to Robin’s more idiotic tendencies — but Will… Will nearly always sees the forest in spite of the trees, and there’s very little he’ll dwell on with something more at stake.

“I am _trying_ ,” Will bites out after a long pause, terse and strained to the last, “to do the right thing here. I’d expect you of all people to understand that, so will you _please_ just shut it and sack out for the night?”

“If you could just—”

“Drop it,” John says, his tone brooking no argument. “None of us has the energy to waste on being angry tonight. Don’t make him say something he’ll regret.”

Well that’s… a rather low blow, all things considered, though not, Robin supposes, entirely undeserved.

He cannot take his venomous words back, and more than ever Robin longs to shed the skin of a snake— of a man he never wanted to be.

Will disappears into the kitchen, and Robin swallows his pride down until it lodges itself in his throat and hovers in the in between, torn between ire and remorse. And that’s— he’s being petulant in his ire, he knows he is, can even fucking see it in the way he roughly tugs off his gloves and tosses them onto the chair with little finesse (there’s a smattering of small holes, on each one, and he’s nothing to mend or replace them with at the moment). Petulant, and bordering on childish, and he _hates it_ because still, even after all of this, he finds himself failing. For every step forward it seems like he trips, stumbles, falls two steps backward — he shucks off his boots with marginally more care than his gloves — and every step in the wrong direction leads him back to one thing he regrets the most.

The one thing he wishes he _could_ take back, when all is said and done.

How he _longs_ to earn even a chance at forgiveness— and to bring Regina _home_.

“The fuck happened to you?”

His tunic slips from his fingers to the chair a little clumsily at John’s voice and Robin blinks over at him, confused. “What?”

“You’re bleeding.”

Robin furrows his brow and glances down, eyes sweeping over his legs, feet, along his arms and… oh.

Oh.

There’s a bright red stain all along the side of his shirt, much larger than he would’ve expected, and it takes him a moment too long to piece it all together. He’d aggravated the wound, in climbing over the wall, had left West End before he was properly healed and been in pain for a good half hour or so. Except… not quite so much pain, not like before, and it’s another moment of disoriented blinking combined with John tugging him over to the bed before Robin realizes the blood loss is getting to him.

It’s really a miracle he’s lived as long as he has, frankly. He’d probably have been buried in that cemetery ages ago if not for the good sense of those closest to him.

Alright, perhaps he’s more of an idiot than he cares to admit. He’s certainly far more reckless than is even remotely reasonable.

_I’ve always admired your skill_.

“Shit,” John breathes, pulling Robin’s attention once more. “Couple of stitches broke open, I don’t— hang on.” A smile tugs at the corner of Robin’s mouth at that — honestly, where is he even going to go right now? — but he stays put and leans back to have a lie-down across the width of the bed. It’s only a moment, maybe a bit longer (time’s a bit… fuzzy, at the moment, though he thinks they’ve finally lost the last of the light outside) before John is back at his side.

Robin hisses at the press of cool and damp against the wound but it only stings briefly, gives way to something altogether soothing in the aftermath. “Sorry,” John murmurs, passing the cloth (cloth? cloth) over the wound again. “‘m trying to get it clean as best as I can before I sew the end back up.”

“‘s fine,” Robin mumbles, vision swimming a bit as he lolls his head to the side to look out the small window inset the wall. Definitely no daylight, and only the faintest shadows of moonlight now— blocked out, perhaps, by the gathering clouds of an impending snowstorm.

“You gonna tell me how you got this?” John asks, only half-successful at suppressing a sigh as he digs around in a box nearby.

“No.”

John snorts a little before answering, words sounding slightly mumbled, like he’s biting something between his teeth. “Are you not going to tell me because you’re afraid I’ll tell Will, or because you don’t want to hear me say I told you so?”

The tug becomes a twitch, becomes a half-smile, melancholic around the edges. “Bit of both, really, though to be honest I probably need to hear the latter.”

A beat, and then, “Can I get that in writing?”

“Take it in blood, for all I care,” Robin says, half-joking. It doesn’t land particularly well with John, if the idle _mmm_ is anything to go by, but John had, as usual, been right in issuing an edict again arguing. Robin doesn’t think he could muster up the energy even if he tried, much less the heart to be avid and genuine but— “Fuck,” he chokes out, arching up slightly when the needle pierces his skin. “Give a man warning next time, yeah?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” John says, fingers surprisingly steady where he works on stitching Robin’s skin back together. “You sat through this once already.”

“Wasn’t conscious, the first time,” Robin mutters, only mildly successful at muffling a moan when John pinches a little too hard. John hears him anyway, stops, pulls his hand away, and somewhere between one or seven beats of silence there’s a slight rustling before there’s a cool, metallic shock against Robin’s hand that has him sucking a breath, startled. Blearily he glances down at the hand in question, blinking a few times to focus enough to make out whatever John’s just pressed into his palm. “What’s this?”

“It’s a flask, what does it look like?” John snorts, turning his attention back to Robin’s wound. “Whiskey.”

“Oh thank _fuck_ ,” Robin sighs, fumbling for half a moment to unstopper it before bringing it his lips. And yes, _yes_ , this is the good stuff, the kind they’ll barter for on rare occasion instead of settling for the swill at a usual tavern or two. This is sharp, biting and smooth, liquid heat burning all the way down and almost instantly Robin feels tension melting out of his muscles, sting of the needle not quite so prominent. In its place he finds he’s becoming maybe a touch too pliant, weightless and heavy and sinking into snow soft, and warm.

Alright, perhaps he’s overdone it a bit today.

Belatedly, it occurs to him that there is probably a very specific reason John opted for the better whiskey on their journey up to the Locksley estate, and it takes a concentrated effort not to let the taste turn bitter on his tongue.

He has to get past the ghost, to become someone new.

“Fucking hell,” Will breathes from the doorway, prompting Robin to glance over at him. It’s hard to follow his movement when he makes his way over to the hearth and sets some things down on the small, uneven table nearby, but he’s only out of sight for half a moment before he’s at Robin’s side once more. “Do I even _want_ to know the story behind this?”

“Don’t you already?” Robin murmurs, and alright, perhaps that’s a bit too flippant all things considered, but it hardly justifies Will prying the flask out of his hand in retaliation. “Hey, I wasn’t done with that.”

“Can’t believe you let him have the good stuff,” Will mutters to John, blatantly ignoring Robin’s protest. “‘s not like he’s done anything to deserve it.”

“Debatable,” John argues, somehow managing to sound indifferent as he finishes up the last of the stitches. “Figured it’d help take the edge off a bit, and he only took a swig anyway. There’s plenty left.”

“I’m still here, y’know,” Robin says dryly, gaze shifting lazily between them and ah, there’s the rest of the liquor sinking in. It _has_ taken the edge off quite a bit — gods, they must’ve opted for top shelf for the occasion — and he finds his ire fizzling out rather rapidly. Beyond it being for the best, letting go of his anger is also an absolute requirement for making it out of this place alive.

For trying to fix what he has torn apart, and good, good, _good_.

“I think that’ll hold okay,” John sighs, pulling back to survey his handiwork. “You know, provided you don’t do anything stupid before we get you back to Tuck or a real doctor.”

“That’s asking a bit much, isn’t it?” Will says, half-joking.

“To put it mildly,” John mutters, and where ire threatens to spark back into a flame whiskey douses it almost instantly, letting little more than a long suffering sigh spiral from Robin’s lips like smoke. All three of them are quiet for a long beat before John continues, wrinkle forming above his nose. “Honestly, I’m more worried about keeping this clean until we get back to camp. I don’t think we brought anything with us we could use to dress it.”

“In my bag,” Robin offers, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the hearth. “Should be a handful of bandages in there.”

Will is the one to rise and fetch them, but even when Robin does something right John still finds fault in him. “Why weren’t you wearing one to begin with?”

“I… left in a bit of a hurry,” Robin admits, grimacing a bit at the memory of slipping out under cover of shadow. “I knew I wasn’t getting out of there any time soon, at least not openly. I wanted to come h— to get back to camp before the worst of the winter hit so we could—”

“O-ho, mate,” Will interjects, derisive and somehow still sharp around the edges with warning. “Do not finish that sentence or I will break your nose _for_ her.”

“That’s not fair,” Robin protests, struggling to sit up a little and only managing to prop himself up on his elbows. “I never had the chance to explain why before—”

“You had _plenty_ of opportunities,” John counters, his tone brooking no argument. He gestures for Will to pass him the bandages and studies them quickly before selecting one. “You didn’t take a single one because you’re as stubborn as a fucking _mule_ , and you don’t like being wrong, and—”

“Why does this sound familiar?” Robin mutters darkly, lolling his head back to look up at the ceiling in an effort to stay calm.

“You want us to give you credit — help me sit him up a little, will you? — for finally giving credence to _her_ idea,” John says, and his hands are warm, steady against Robin’s skin as he pushes Robin upright. “You want us to give you credit for proving us right. You’re an idiot, Robin, but you’re not stupid.”

“Jury’s still out on that one,” Will quips, low and under his breath, and if he weren’t already using what little energy he has at the moment Robin might actually give into the impulse to smack Will upside the head a bit. As it is, it’s taking most all of his focus to stay sitting up — he should really get some food in him; he wonders what Will’s managed to pull together — and in the end he can do little more than glare in Will’s direction.

That does nothing, of course, and this time it’s not whiskey that tamps down Robin’s ire, but the stark difference between actions, and words. They can berate him all they want — he _does_ deserve it, in… most capacities, after all — but _their_ anger hasn’t stopped them from leaning into instinct and acting upon it without second thoughts. They’ve done nothing but look out for him, since they’d cornered him in the graveyard earlier, and continue to do so even now.

The whiskey’s taken the edge off but Robin is not numb to the flare-ups of pain from his wound, and every muscles in his core aches something awful while he tries to remain sitting, still for John while he finishes tending to Robin’s wound. Will’s hands are far more steady than Robin can hope to be right now, braced against Robin’s back, shoulder for support. It allows Robin to pull up the hem of his shirt a little more to grant John better access.

It’s not until the bandage is on its second loop around Robin’s middle that Will speaks up again. “You know,” he muses, a casual, idle thing that sounds anything but, “I keep trying to remind myself that this probably would’ve happened anyway. Not _this_ , exactly,” he clarifies, nodding at the place Robin’s wound is held together with stitches. “But the rest of it… It’s hard to imagine otherwise.”

“I thought we were tabling this discussion until tomorrow,” Robin sighs, eyes following the bandage as John loops it around a third time.

“I keep thinking about her,” Will says, clearly ignoring the double standard at play. “If she’d been there—”

“I _told_ you,” Robin reminds him, hissing slightly when John tugs a little too tight on the next loop around. “If Regina were still with us, we wouldn’t have been in that mess in the first place.”

“If she’d been there,” Will presses, voice dropping a bit, and it’s only then, when Robin actually looks over at him again, that he realizes Will can’t quite bring himself to meet Robin’s eyes. “If you’d been in my place, and she’d been in yours, she’d have done the same. And not— not because it was the right thing to do, or because she mistook reckless idiocy for nobility, or because she actually, I don’t know, gave a shit.”

“I honestly can’t tell if this is you trying to make me feel better or not,” Robin says. It’s a pathetic attempt at levity where he so desperately needs it, now that Regina’s name has fallen from his lips at long last, and this— this is a wound of another kind without a tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

Will’s hands are gone, at that, and once again, Robin’s words are treated like the distraction they are. “She’d’ve done the same, because for some reason she loves your idiot ass— because she gave you her heart, and you had the fucking audacity to go and _break it_.”

Robin inhales sharply in tandem with the rough _shthwip_ of the bandage being tied off, and John too pulls his hands away in haste. That… feel less like a punishment, than Will’s retreat, but there’s something hard in it all the same, like he’s holding something back as well. And _that_ — that’s the thing that tells Robin they’ve come to the fork in the road at last: he can either give up the ghost, or be buried in the place he never truly belonged.

Regina had seen his heart even when it’d been tucked away, and she is still, after all this time, worth so much _more_ than he had ever really deserved.

She is _his_ heart, on two feet, and the path before him is clear, his choice long since made.

“That’s why I have to find her, Will,” Robin breathes, over-earnest as he releases the hem of his shirt. “Not because it’s the right thing to do, or because I feel guilty about it, which, trust me, I do. Not even because it might help my chances of earning her back — and that’s beyond selfish, I know that — but because… you’re right. I _am_ an idiot, at my absolute worst, and I owe it to her to at least _try_ and make amends for what I did.”

“Because you love her,” Will throws back, not missing a beat. “Because you’re an idiot, and you still love her, and that didn’t _make you_ into a better person, Robin.”

“No,” Robin agrees, soft and too-tender for comfort, “but being loved by her? Gave me the push I needed to be who I’ve always wanted— to be who I am. And that’s— it’s nowhere near the paragon of perfection or sainthood some might imagine it to be.”

“Tell me about it,” John mutters, half-startling them both into glancing over at him.

Still, the corner of Robin’s mouth twitches up, lips playing at a smile. “I’m a thorn in someone’s side on a good day, Will, but I know— I know I’m not _this_ ,” he says, eyes casting around the near-empty room. “I never wanted to be this, and I won’t be, not again.

“I need to find her. Will you still help me?”

“No.”

His whole chest feels hollow, at that, shoulders feeling the weight of fatigue (guilt, shadow, shadow, no, _no_ ) as he turns once more to meet John’s eyes. “No?” he echoes, unable to help the way his voice splinters, cracks somewhere in the middle.

“No,” John repeats, and the hard edge is still there but there’s something else there, too, that Robin can’t quite identify. The refusal cuts deep, though, has Robin swallowing around the sudden swell of a lump in his throat, but while it’s harder to keep his eyes locked with John’s Robin forces himself not to look away. Somehow it’s that, Robin thinks, which really gets under John’s skin and pulls more words out of him. “You really don’t get it, do you?

“Forget about whether or not going after her is selfish— that part doesn’t matter. You might have been the one she loved,” — and fuck, if Robin wasn’t sitting down he thinks that would bring him to his knees, the prospect of past tense — “but she planted her roots in Sherwood. She made ties with _us_. Regina was part of our _family_ , Robin,” — he feels, hears Will’s discomfort more than he sees it in his peripheral vision, picks up on the slight hitch in breath and listless shuffling — “and you froze her out.

“You want to fix what you broke, but you don’t get it: _this isn’t just about you_ ,” John says, and it’s by far the most patient he’s been all evening, “So no, we’re not going to help you. But maybe… you can help us.”

Warmth blossoms, floods Robin’s chest until he’s fit to burst and it’s nothing, _nothing_ at all to do with what little whiskey he’d had to help numb the pain. Because this— this is igniting not ire but hope, flames licking him through him like the very blood in his veins.

Penance, he can certainly pay— particularly when it looks like this, and good, good, good.

If his men bear the mark Regina has left behind, Robin will gladly follow wherever they might lead.

“So,” he muses quietly, eyes drifting between the pair of them once more. “What now?”

All at once the tension in the air breaks, dissipates and disappears into the smoke drifting from the hearth, and Will is the one to embrace it first. “Now, you rest, _idiot_ ,” Will grumbles, eyes narrowing as he lightly shoves at Robin’s shoulder and nods toward the lumpy-looking pillow near the headboard. “And come morning, we’ll go home.”


	4. Chapter 4

_To date, John thinks the only other person who’s able to get under Robin’s skin like this is Nottingham. Most of those encounters tend to end with either a fist to the face or an elbow to the gut. Robin’s arguments with Regina, though, tend to end with… well, a climax of some variety — the likes of which the rest of the camp meets with either gleeful amusement (sees it as ammunition to tease them mercilessly, later) or disgruntled discomfort (it’s private, really, and John just wants to fucking sleep, damn it)._

_All of this is to say, though, that there is a thin line between love and hate, and Robin toes it like a master pulling puppets’ strings — he always has, ever since John first met him when he was fifteen, and fearless._

_Which means that if the current ire bubbling beneath the surface is any indication, John thinks they’re in for a rather enthusiastic makeup tonight. He’s had the misfortune of holding down the camp today, while the rest of the men ventured into town for trade (for spirits, he knows, but that’ll come later, after the sun’s slipped below the horizon). He wouldn’t mind, normally — it’s his turn in the rotation, it’s only fair — but today it means feeling a little like being surrounded by wolves snarling, chomping at the bit for something to sink their teeth into._

_Well, them and Will, but John’s not all that concerned about him. Will’s bark is nowhere near as bad as his bite, when he’s this hungover, and John counts Will’s lack of limitations when it comes to rum in his favor today. They’ve been toeing the line, Robin and Regina, between raised voices and downright yelling at each other all morning, hovering in the in between if only because Will keeps snapping at them to shut it whenever they get too loud for his pounding head to handle._

_(John’s already considering slipping something into Will’s tea tonight, just to help the poor man sleep through the inevitable amorous apologies.)_

_Still, John’s been doing a pretty good job of ignoring them up until now, has kept his focus on the hide in front of him while he works on fashioning a new pair of gloves — a skill he’s doing his best to hone, under Regina’s careful and patient instruction. Now, though, Regina is distracted, her voice strained as she tries not to raise it again, eyes darting over to where Will has an arm thrown over his eyes like she’s trying to keep herself in check. “You’re being willfully ignorant,” she hisses, leaning in closer to where Robin’s started to shave shafts for new arrows._

_“And you’re reading too much into things,” Robin dismisses, flippant, and his tone has John’s brow wrinkling slightly._

_“I’m not,” she argues. “The rain’s started earlier this year. Most of the trees have already shed half their leaves. The birds have already started migrating west. It won’t be long before the rest of the game starts to follow, Robin.”_

_“We’ll make do with what’s left and what we’ve preserved for the season,” Robin says. “We always have.”_

_“And if you can’t?” Regina challenges, sharp enough that John actually pauses in his work to glance over at her, note the way her hands have settled firm at her hips._

_“Then we follow the game west,” Robin sighs, still not bothering to look up at her and… yeah, this is not going to end well, John can tell. She hates it —_ hates it _when Robin doesn’t give her arguments credence where it’s due, hates it even more when her heart’s in it and his is decidedly not. That — that John gets, because it definitely comes across like Robin doesn’t give a shit about something she actually cares about, and against his normally softer heart it’s cold as stone._

_Toying with the line is like playing with fire, and sometimes John wonders if Robin puts up a fight just to keep her on her toes._

_If he were Regina, John would be pretty pissed off, too._

_John flicks his gaze back to Regina, brow arching in interest when he sees her work her jaw in severe irritation. “You’re missing the point,” she says, voice thin, terse. “Winter is coming. It’s going to be earlier this year than it normally is — all the signs are there, Robin — and at some point, it’s going to be too late. It’s not going to matter what we have on reserves. Traversing the mountains in the west after the first snowfall is going to be damn near impossible—”_

_“Get to the point, Regina.”_

_It sounds tired — Robin’s at his limit, John knows, doesn’t have the energy to keep this going much longer, and it’d be unlike them to come out the other side without some sort of resolution. It’s… encouraging, honestly, has John relaxing enough to divert his attention back to his work, but he can still see them out of the corner of his eye — watches the way Regina, too, softens a little around the edges, and sinks down on the ground next to the log Robin’s sitting on. Her hand finds Robin’s knee, has John hastily focusing his gaze on his hands because here too, is a line, and it seems like they might cross into mending territory much quicker than anticipated._

_(Maybe he can convince Will to go for a walk around the perimeter, just for a little while until the lovebirds have gotten all that pent up tension out of their systems.)_

_“At some point the weather’s going to be bad enough that we can’t break camp and move elsewhere,” she says, and it’s a gentle, quiet thing that has John’s chest twisting with affection for her. She’s brought much needed balance to their little ragtag group of misfits — not so much by virtue of being a woman, but by the way her experiences have shaped her differently from all the rest. She’s far more patient than any of the rest of them, plans a hell of a lot better too, and the care with which she handles them in the face of the unknown is something that can’t be learned, or taught._

_Regina knows how to nurture, and since her introduction into the fold they have flourished as a whole, tenfold._

_He may yet finish these gloves before winter._

_“We need better shelter,” Regina insists, voice growing reedy and catching John’s ear once more. “This isn’t going to be enough.”_

_Robin, much to both their surprise, John thinks, pulls out of her touch with a sharp huff, fingers working roughly as he starts to assemble the arrows. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we don’t exactly have much choice,” he says — snaps, really, and oh, okay, maybe not so amorous after all._

_John’s lips twist at the rough edge to Robin’s words. They both have a point, as far as he’s concerned (which is part of the problem, John knows, this incessant need to be right all the fucking time, gods, they’re so irritating sometimes). Still, there’s something else causing Robin to bristle: nearly fifteen years as his best friend is enough to tell John that. It’s there in the lines of his shoulders and back, the way he slouches and withdraws and closes himself off, brow pinched with whatever worry he’s burying down deep._

_Regina is talking about the goddamn weather, and Robin is clearly hearing something else._

_Sometimes John wonders how Regina hasn’t broken his nose yet._

_By the tone of her voice when she answers, it seems like she’s trying really hard not to give into that impulse. “So we start searching for new ones,” she says, simple, steadfast, “while we still have time.”_

_“And you’re missing my point,” Robin bites out. “I know you’re used to going it alone, Regina, but we can’t always afford to be practical, it just doesn’t work like that. What use is surviving if we end up getting caught?”_

_“Don’t… play the outlaw card like it doesn’t apply to me,” she says thinly and oh, oh shit, that’s new. That’s not like Robin at all, to single her out like that, what the fuck has gotten into him today? “I was a wanted woman long before I ever met any of you,” she reminds him. “And, if that’s the logic we’re going with here, then what’s the point in evading capture if we end up freezing to death?”_

_They’re arguing in circles, John realizes too late, have probably been doing this all morning and there might not actually be an end to this at all, amorous, volatile or otherwise and shit, maybe he should brave the wolves and actually fucking say something for a change—_

_“This isn’t like it was when you were on your own, Regina, we can’t just—”_

_“Yes, we can,” she cuts in. There’s a heavy, weighted silence for half a minute there, one that has John chancing a glance over at them again, and while he expects Robin’s jaw set in a hard line, John is surprised by the tender curiosity in Regina’s expression while she gives him a once-over, still fuming on the surface. “What is going on with you?” she prompts, and it’s a concentrated effort at kindness, civility that doesn’t escape John’s notice, but seems to evade Robin’s. “You are normally the first person to step up and make an effort, take measures to make sure the rest of the men are taken care of—”_

_“I_ am _taking care of my men,” Robin snaps, ice cold and damn near angry and shit, shit, this is bad. John loves Regina, and appreciates the deft hand she has with Robin most days but damn if this woman doesn’t know how to push all of the wrong buttons with him. Slowly, John takes a breath to steady himself and sets the still-in-progress gloves down, mind mulling over the right words to lay down here._

_But Robin’s not done, won’t fucking shut up now that she’s provoked him without real intention, and where John is at a loss for words, Robin seems to have all the wrong ones. “That’s what I do, but I wouldn’t expect you to know what that’s like. Being nomadic when you’re on your own is all well and good but I can’t ask that of them. We have roots here, Regina, alright? This is where we’ve decided to make our home. We’re not going to just up and leave when we feel like it because that’s not what family does, and you’d know that if you’d ever had one.”_

_The regret is instant in Robin’s eyes before John’s even had time to react, but he clams up, keeps his mouth shut and it’s just to prove a goddamn point, gods, but he’s a fucking idiot. Out of the corner of his eye John sees Will lift his arm away from his face to look over at them, but that’s all the attention John can spare because his eyes are fixed on Regina otherwise, waiting to see the carnage Robin’s bite has left behind._

_She’s still furious, that much is clear, shoulders back and eyes narrowed as she breathes hard, shallow, but the wound shows itself quickly. She’s damn near_ shaking _, her eyes wet, clouded with confusion, and the longer he meets her gaze dead-on the larger the wound becomes until it’s gaping, bleeding out into the air around them, and it’s a very near thing, John thinks, that she doesn’t actually cry._

_“Fuck you,” she says, a half-whisper that’s low, downright dangerous, and Robin flinches, as good as if she’s slapped him like he deserves. She’s pushing herself to her feet without so much as another word, spins on her heel and sets off toward the far end of the camp._

_Robin sets his arrows down with a disgruntled sigh, like he’s actually put out by getting up to go after her, seriously,_ what _has gotten into him today? “Regina—”_

_“No, honestly, Robin,” she snaps thinly, whirling around on the spot and leveling him with a look dark, and full of fire. “_ Fuck you _if you think that me trusting you with some of my darker secrets means you get a free pass when you act like a_ jackass _for no good reason. If you think that makes you an exception — that it makes you_ special _, well then I’ve got news for you, Robin of Locksley. It doesn’t. If anything you’ve just proven that it was a mistake to ever trust you in the first place.”_

_Well, shit._

_Shit, shit, shit, that’s just going to make things worse and drag this out. John knows, he knows Robin, knows exactly what sore spots she’s just scratched at and this isn’t fighting to resolve, or win, but biting with the intention to wound and make someone bleed — just to make it hurt._

_Will sits up, turns toward them just as Regina turns on her heel again and stalks off toward the edge of camp toward her and Robin’s tent, John realizes, and the thought that she’d lie in wait to make amends never even crosses his mind; Robin has cut too deep for that. The best they can hope for is that Robin will come to his senses, before dinner, and seek her out to apologize, and in the meantime keep his mouth shut._

_Of course, that’s too much to ask, with the pair of them, and hope dies before it even has a chance to live. “Yeah, alright then,” Robin mutters, sinking back down onto the log and snatching up his half-made arrows. “Leave. That’s what you do best anyway, isn’t it? Must run in the family.”_

_The whole camp falls almost deathly quiet — even the birds have ceased their idle trilling for a spell — as Regina halts abruptly, a handful of tents away from the fringes of camp. Robin refuses to even so much as half-glance over in her direction, gaze stays trained on the (stupid, poorly crafted, John is going to fucking burn those things just to make him start over) arrows. But John sees the way Robin’s breath catches, holds in his chest, knows all of Robin’s attention is focused, fixated on Regina while he waits for her to lash out._

_Slowly, Regina looks over her shoulder, face half-hidden by the fur-trimmed collar on her tunic, but there’s no mistaking the sheer and utter_ hurt _in her voice when her gaze finally finds, settles on where she’d left Robin sitting alone. “And what would I know,” she says, simple, scathing and somehow still thick, with the onslaught of tears, “about family?”_

_She disappears into the outskirts before Robin has even had a chance to exhale sharply — before Will can so much as voice a protest, and before John can recover from wounds that are not his own, in order to intervene._

_In her wake, Will’s words find their way to Robin, blunt and full of ire. “Seriously, mate, what the_ fuck _was that all about? Are you really gonna just sit there and let her leave without—”_

_“Oh, let her go,” Robin grumbles, mood downright foul now and John has no sympathy for him, not at all. “There’s no sense in trying to reason with her when she gets herself worked up into a snit like this. It’s like arguing with the sun.”_

_“And you’re not?” John throws back, unable to help himself now that he’s found his voice again at last. “Because from where I’m sitting, she’s the one who walked away with burns.”_

_“Let her cool off a bit,” Robin says instead, addressing Will but casting a dark look John’s way. “She’ll be back, once she’s had time to think it over and come to see things my way.”_

_And there are a_ thousand _things on the tip of John’s tongue, at that: disdain for Robin’s belligerent need to be right, and have the upper hand; logic of his own, in the face of Robin’s faulty line; aggravation, and bewilderment at Robin’s outright refusal to just fucking tell her what’s really bothering him (whatever the fuck it is); warning, in the wake of the line Robin had clearly crossed, and the lengths he’s going to have to go to in order to make things right._

_In the end, though, John leaves Robin to Will’s befuddled beratement, and chooses to move himself (and his work) to another part of camp, so he doesn’t say something he knows he’ll regret._

_Because somewhere in all of that, John knows, Regina had pulled Edward of Locksley to the surface, and the second John lays that accusation at Robin’s feet is the second all hell breaks loose, and everything catches fire. And, well. As far as John’s concerned, they’ve burned each other enough to last a lifetime._

_So he sets himself apart, the rest of the day, works on his gloves in silence and pointedly ignores Will’s attempts at setting Robin straight, and the way Robin’s temper flares up in reply. He works until the sun slopes behind the horizon, and the men start to trickle back in at dusk. He shifts focus and takes on the task of dinner for the night, puts in the effort to make their usual stew a little more refined (and it doesn’t escape his notice, when they circle up to eat, that Robin does little more than poke idly at his own portion, and ignores the others’ questions about Regina’s whereabouts)._

_John sits, and waits, as the sun disappears. Waits until there are bellies full, and a moon hung low in the sky. Waits until stragglers trickle in, punch-drunk with too much drink. Waits longer still, until most of the men have disappeared into their tents for the night. Waits, until he is alone, at the campfire, save for Robin. Waits while Robin props himself up against a tree, on the other side, and takes up a vigil watching the place Regina had disappeared, in the wake of Robin’s infernal pride._

_The thing is, she doesn’t come back that night._

_In the morning, Robin’s mood has soured beyond belief, and Will lets it slip, once Robin’s gone with some of the others for a hunt, that Robin had been unable to find any of her things in their tent upon waking._

__She’ll be back _, Robin had assured them, but John worries, now, that maybe she never will._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For the first time in the ten days she’s been here, Regina crosses the threshold from the back bedroom out into the front hallway. The bandit in her leans back into every survival instinct she has, practically screams at her to _get the fuck back in that room, you idiot, do you_ want _to get caught?_. Regina ignores her, though, pushes down, down, down and away the echo of _what use is surviving if we end up getting caught_ and the twinge of ache, yearning and longing that stirs up for someone she should not still love.

(Can’t seem to stop loving, no matter how hard she tries, and maybe she should just stop _trying_ to stop, instead.)

It’s just — she’s been confined to the same two rooms for a week and a half. Part of her is curious, sure, about the rest of the Lucas’ little patch of home here on the Outskirts: she’s yet to see the whole front of the cottage, the kitchen and whatever Granny’s cobbled together as a makeshift bedroom of her own; the well, Regina has no memory of, in spite of that being the place they found her; and there’s a barn, out the back, that she’s only glimpsed through the small window in Red’s bedroom.

She doesn’t have any delusions of grandeur about being able to go explore — she’s not nearly well enough for that, and if she were, she’d have no reason to stay — but she’s regained a lot of her overall strength in the last three or four days. The sickness in her chest keeps receding, drying up with each new day she’s under the Lucas’ care. Her stomach doesn’t turn over quite as much; she takes her meals in the large, cushioned chair next to the bed. The dizzy spells are far and few between now as well, no longer debilitating the way they’d been just last week, and with each new bout of independence healing grants her — the ability to stand and walk on her own; the luxury of privacy in using the chamber pot or opting for a bath — Regina starts to feel…

She’s hesitant to think of it as feeling more like herself — she’s not quite there yet, and isn’t quite sure who that person is right now, given all of her variations — but it’s almost akin to that. More human, and less like… a snake.

(Her bite is as venomous as the one that had killed the king, and Red has not given Regina opportunity to suck the poison out.)

And… to be completely honest, Regina is a little bored, holed up in there mostly by herself. Red isn’t speaking to her unless she absolutely has to, and half of Regina’s waking hours (which are still fewer than normal, given her sudden tendency to drift off mid-conversation) find her alone against the steady orders and general housekeeping Granny has to tend to. Which means that the other half of Regina’s waking hours that aren’t occupied by food or bathing are exceptionally… dull, all things considered.

She’s beginning to regret turning down Red’s offer to bring her a book.

So she’s decided to brave the front today, risk Granny’s wrath and slowly pad her way down the hall, only wobbling a little halfway down. She presses her hand against the wall for purchase, uses it to keep her gait steady until she emerges at last into the front of the cottage and takes in the room. It’s… comparable in size to the other half of the house: there’s a large chaise in the corner that looks surprisingly comfortable, for all of its lumps; a rocking chair settled near the hearth; a rather large table set up nearby, with a pair of rickety wooden chairs; a kitchen that takes up half the space, between sink and oven and stove, and all of the little cabinets tucked away.

It’s here, at the fringes of the kitchen that Regina finds Granny settled into one of the wooden chairs, coins scattered across the table while she mutters under her breath and scrawls idly in the open journal next to her, quill scratching rhythmically against the gentle crackling of the fire. 

The smell of sugar is stronger out here than it’s ever been in the bedroom — if the last vestiges of the cold weren’t clinging to her so stubbornly, Regina thinks she’d almost be able to taste it, in the air — and it’s here she directs her attention, leaning comfortably against the wall. “Blackberries?” she guesses, sniffing a little to try and get a better sense of what’s baking.

Granny blinks up at her, startled, before dropping her quill and abruptly pushing herself to her feet with a disgruntled _tsk_. “You know,” she mutters, immediately moving toward the duo of windows in the kitchen and pulling the shutters closed, “I’m beginning to think it’s nothing short of a miracle that you’ve survived as long as you have, girl, you’re so damn reckless.”

Regina digs her teeth into her lower lip, cheeks flushing as she watches Granny bustle about the room to each of the remaining windows. “You know I’m not,” she argues, letting loose a _tsk_ of her own when Granny throws her a _look_ over her shoulder. “I’m going kind of crazy, just sitting in that room. There’s not a whole lot I can do yet, and it’s not like I can go anywhere. I just — give me something to do,” she insists. “Let me _help_ with something, anything.”

With a sigh Granny turns to look at her, hands settling on her hips. “You need to rest.”

“I have been resting,” Regina argues. “That’s all I’ve _been_ doing.”

“And it’s working,” Granny throws back, “because you’re getting better.”

“Sitting in a different room isn’t going to change that,” Regina says dryly. “I’m not asking to go outside and chop wood in the snow, or clean out the barn. I just want—” 

“What you want,” Granny drawls, beckoning her forward with a wave of her hand and an exasperated sigh, “and what you need are not always the same thing. For example,” she says, guiding Regina toward the chaise and forcing her to sink down onto it, “I want Red to learn how to be a better baker, so she can take over the business for me one day. Not going to happen. I want the two of you to sort out whatever happened between you last week. Can’t force it. I want to shut myself up in that room and soak in a hot bath for a good hour without any interruptions. There are not enough hours in the day. And I want you,” she says pointedly, pulling a shawl off of the back of the chaise and draping it around Regina’s shoulders, “to rest, and start taking better care of yourself, and the little one in there.”

At that Regina sucks in a sharp breath, shifts uncomfortably on the chaise and tucks her legs beneath her. “Granny, I—” 

“Clearly,” Granny murmurs, hooking her fingers under Regina’s chin just long enough to force eye contact, “we have different definitions of the word rest.”

Regina offers her a tentative, crooked smile, and Granny releases her with another put-out sigh. “What I _need_ is to finish balancing my book for the week, and keep an eye on that — yes, blackberry — pie in the oven to make sure it doesn’t burn because I do not have time to make another, and get the laundry folded before everything starts to wrinkle more than it already has. And get dinner started,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, looking thoroughly distracted now that she’s listed everything out.

“I probably shouldn’t handle food for you,” Regina says, earning her a half-glance from Granny as she surveys the work piling up around the room. “And… you know better than I do how much coin should be there,” she adds, and she can’t sound anything other than uncomfortable at the thought of handling someone else’s money, regardless of how implicitly Granny seems to trust her. “But the laundry — I can do that, can’t I? I wouldn’t even have to get up.”

Granny’s gaze shifts between her and the basket a few times before she finally rolls her eyes and goes to fetch it for her. “Are you always like this?” she asks, setting the basket down at the edge of the chaise with a huff. “Red thinks _I’m_ as stubborn as a mule. Trying to argue with you is like talking to a brick wall.”

( _Bloody fucking hell_ , Robin had gasped into her ear, fingers sinking into her hair and yanking her closer to him. _There’s no reasoning with you when you get like this, d’you know that? It’s like trying to douse the sun._ Regina had just smiled, burned another searing kiss against his lips before grazing a damp trail down, lips following the hand she slips beneath the waistline of his trousers.)

Now, Regina swallows the ghost of a volatile love down, and the same words come out. “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” she declares, sitting up a little straighter and reaching for the clean cloth at the top of the pile. Granny just shakes her head, mutters something about being _amazed that you ever—_ before she moves to the oven to check on her pie. Regina watches her, out of the corner of her eye, thinks for half a moment before venturing, “Where’s Red?”

“I sent her to market,” Granny says, sparing one last look at her pie before deciding to give it a bit longer, “before the snow starts up again. I’m almost out of half the things in my medicine chest, and she’ll be better at bartering with the townsfolk right now. Everyone will be worked up over the lack of market days, given all the snow. Red can be quite, uh, persuasive, when she wants to be,” Granny mutters, sinking back down into her chair.

Regina mulls that over for a minute while she folds. She has so many questions about her hosts — ones she thinks Red would have answered easily, if Regina hadn’t been such a… well, a royal bitch, frankly. Getting the same sort of answers out of Granny seems less likely: she, much like Regina, doesn’t come across as the type to lay her life out like an open book. But Regina is… _trying_ , now that she’s not quite so bedridden, to make the most of her time here. Any information she can get about the people who have offered so freely, so easily to help her, without any expectations, is something she can use.

The more she knows, the easier it will be to determine whether or not this might be one of very few places in all of Misthaven she’s not looked upon as a liability.

The more she knows, the easier it will be to determine just how far she can trust them.

“So,” Regina muses, trying to gauge Granny’s reaction out of the corner of her eye, “was she born a charmer, or did she learn by example?”

A beat, and then Granny’s lips are twisting into a funny little smile even though she doesn’t look Regina’s way. “Little of both,” she chuckles, low and under her breath. “Her father was the one who had more patience with people. She gets that from him, I think.”

“And, uh, the persistence, from you?” Regina ventures, biting back a smile.

Granny narrows her eyes in Regina’s direction. “Are you implying that I’m bull-headed?”

“Well you _did_ just say she thinks you’re as stubborn as—” 

“Alright,” Granny drawls, a hint of warning in her tone, but it’s mild (not affectionate, it’s not, because Granny is kind and Regina is not her family). “I’ll admit, once we get our minds set about something, it’s hard to convince us otherwise. Runs in the family, I suppose.”

The words twist, gnarl into the cruel, icy tone of Robin’s voice before they’ve even made their way across the room, land with a sharp crack against Regina’s ears and sting like the brand of a lashing and _what would I know about family_. This is stupid, she’s being stupid, she shouldn’t still be brought to the point of tears over something he’d said months ago (it is the _last_ thing he ever said to her) but each day that her body changes, grows to accommodate someone else’s soul, she dwells on those words more and more. Because maybe she was an idiot for ever thinking she could do this, maybe she’s just not… made right, for this sort of thing, maybe Robin was right, after all, and she will only ever be capable of— 

“Thought I’d thrown this in with the wash,” Granny mutters, startling Regina into blinking up at her with blurred vision. She’s hovering next to the chaise, Granny, unearths Regina’s handkerchief from the basket of fresh laundry and holds it out in offering with knowing eyes. Regina frowns a little but accepts it with a barely-there _thank you_ , uncomfortable under Granny’s gaze. “Red’s mother was prone to more spontaneous weeping, when she was pregnant,” Granny says, moving back to the table. “She hated it. Couldn’t wait for the whole thing to be over so she could go back to feeling _normal_ , whatever that meant.”

Slowly, Regina allows herself to look back up, and this time it’s Granny who shifts under the weight of Regina’s scrutiny. That’s not… Regina’s pretty sure Granny knows at least a little more about her, than Red does, enough so that the remark feels off the mark, but it takes the halt of the quill for a very pointed few seconds for Regina to realize what it is she’s doing.

It’s… an out, a pass from having to explain why Regina had reacted so poorly, and Granny is far, far more perceptive than Regina ever though she might be.

Not much of one, though, considering the fact that now she’s either meant to respond to the redirect accordingly (something she isn’t willing to do, because that means talking about the life forming inside of her like she expects its arrival, come spring, and healing has not given Regina back the audacity to hope) or change the subject entirely herself. 

She opts for compromise somewhere in the middle, instead. “Did she?” Regina asks, turning her attention back to the laundry. “After Red was born, did she go back to feeling… normal?” The word tastes almost foul, on her tongue, and she sees why Granny has such distaste for it.

“I always assumed so,” Granny sighs, setting her quill down and reaching for the coins to begin stacking them in organized piles. “Never knew for sure, though. She was gone within two months.”

Regina’s hands still around the robe she clutches, chest growing tight around the edges. “Gone?” she echoes faintly, hardly able to swallow around the lump in her throat.

There’s a long pause, the soft, repetitive _clink_ of coin against coin broken when Granny stops, fingers hovering over one stack before she sighs, glances sidelong in Regina’s direction but doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Red might understand you better than you think, dear,” Granny murmurs, “if you gave her the chance.”

Gods, this woman is inhumanly perceptive.

The more bitter parts of her bubble up in her stomach like bile, though, force Regina to stare studiously at the material in her hands and swallow down the venom her hardened, hollow heart wants to spit. Even if that’s true — even if Red’s mother _left her_ , like Regina’s did (which really just begs more questions, because it makes even less sense to Regina now, that Red offered up the suggestion she did where the orphanage was concerned), that would be the end of the depth of Red’s ability to understand. Red knew her father, in some capacity, and at the end of the day Red has Granny, to look after her heart, and give her a home.

Regina has lost the only things that have ever come close — to wrath, and fire, and pride.

“Is that why you decided to help me?” Regina asks, faint and far more thick than she wants it to be. “Because you saw some of her, in me?”

A laugh falls from Granny’s lips, dry and humorless. She doesn’t answer for a moment though, goes back to her little stacks of coins before gathering them up and dumping them into a pouch, one at a time. “If you really want to know,” she says, “Red actually had very little to do with it. Oh, she found you, and convinced me to come have a look at you, but that girl’s bleeding heart just gave me an excuse.”

All at once Regina feels the cold slither of refusal beneath her skin, remembers the hollow pit in her stomach when she’d stumbled to the woman’s cottage in the dark and been branded as a liability, against the tender, innocent hearts of children. Breath growing shallow, Regina glances back up cautiously. “Why would you need an excuse?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Granny snaps, and she’s not even _looking_ at Regina, _how_ — “I told you that first night we had no love for the queen here, girl. If I was really worried about what she might do if she ever found out, I’d have left you out there. And contrary to what some of the idiots in the village might think, I’m not heartless. I figure that’s best left to her, anyway.”

Regina shrinks back a bit, feeling properly chastised. It’s not — she doesn’t feel guilty for her caution, knows she has good reason to withhold trust and has fucking earned her paranoia. At every turn, the Lucas’ have done nothing but give her reason to relax — to trust, and feel safe, and not worry quite so much. And it’s selfish — she knows it’s selfish, to ask for more, but Greed bears the mark of the same instinct that had flared up, when Red’s hand had strayed too far in the bath (and it has to be Anger, and Greed, and a thousand other sins, because the second she thinks otherwise it becomes Hope, and the closer it gets the more terrified she becomes).

“That doesn’t answer the question,” Regina points out, fingers rubbing smoothly along the hem of the robe’s sleeve.

For a minute or two she thinks she won’t get an answer: Granny doesn’t acknowledge the remark — the request, really, to tell Regina more. Instead she pushes herself to her feet and makes her way back to the oven, peeks inside before opening the door the rest of the way. It’s not until she’s reached for a towel and ducked down to pull the pie out that Regina realizes Granny is… stalling, almost, trying to give herself some time. She sets the pie atop the counter and turns to lean against it, fingers reaching up to toy with the loop of a necklace — a leather string weighed down by a pendant of some sort, tucked into her bodice.

Instinctively Regina echoes her, fingers ghosting over the column of her neck, across her collarbone in search of her own before she remembers that she won’t find it anymore.

That too, had been lost.

“Red’s father was a hunter,” Granny says at long last, startling Regina back into attention. “A butcher. Best one in these parts for miles — he regularly kept food on the tables of families here and the next village over. Could barter for almost anything at market, that man, had the whole world at his feet.”

“You must’ve been very proud,” Regina offers, unable to help the way her voice turns small, strained against the twinge of ache in her chest.

It earns her a genuine smile, though, the warmest she thinks she’s seen since first laying eyes upon Granny ten days ago, and the ache in her chest burns all the way down low in her belly (it is not longing, it is not allowed to be longing, it can only be jealousy and even in that she is failing, _failing_ , gods). “I was,” Granny says, a surprisingly soft, tender thing that has Regina melting a little into the cushions of the chaise. “Still am, really. He made the most of his skill, which allowed me to make the most of mine, but he always, _always_ had time for Red. That girl followed him around like a pup — she _adored_ him.”

The question Regina wants to ask — _what happened to him_ — turns to ash in her mouth before it can ever make it out. She realizes, too late, that she really has no right to ask that of either of them. Forget keeping things close to her chest: Regina is not entitled to even want to know the answer to that, much less ask it, given the vile reaction she’d had to Red’s (well-intentioned) suggestion last week. Still, Granny is the one who had brought up her son, first, and Regina thinks she’s allowed to at least toe the threshold, while the door is still open. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Granny agrees with a sigh, and Regina breathes a little easier, encouraged when Granny pushes away from the counter. “It was just after she’d had a birthday — what was it, her eighth? Gods, has it really been that long?” Granny groans, sinking into her rocking chair. “He left on a hunting trip for a few days. It was the last time she saw him.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say he didn’t not come back of his own volition,” Regina guesses, tone bordering on the shadow side of too-light, just in case.

“I wish the answer to that were more simple,” Granny says, and it’s not… dark, exactly, but something altogether more melancholic, conflicted. “He never would’ve left that girl, if he’d been given a choice.” A beat, and then, “Or I guess, he did have one, and the alternative wasn’t an option he ever would have considered taking. Not with the risk.”

“You make it sound like someone was after him,” Regina says, and it doesn’t add up, not with how amiable Granny’s made him sound.

(She does, after all, know what it’s like to be hunted.)

“Again, not that simple,” Granny says, but she doesn’t seem all that irritated. “He was a hunter — it’s why he left. There’d been sightings of boar, farther north, and he didn’t — he wasn’t as familiar with the territory. He strayed a little too far and found himself somewhere he shouldn’t have been. He ended up being arrested for trespassing,” she explains, voice pitching lower as her eyes drift, away from fire to meet Regina’s eyes, “on the queen’s grounds.”

Regina sucks in a breath at that: on a good day, it would’ve meant losing a limb, or starving for three days in the dungeons before execution. On a bad day it would’ve meant a snapped neck, or a crushed heart, in an instant.

(Liability is like a brand scorching at her soul, and Regina has to swallow it down in order to remind herself that she cannot hold herself responsible for every death at Snow’s hands.)

“Fate was on his side for a while longer, though,” Granny continues, once she realizes that Regina isn’t going to offer up any words of real value. “The Royal Guard took him straight to her, instead of to the dungeons, and he was fortunate enough not to be killed on the spot. And… it didn’t take him long to figure out the reason why.”

That throws her, a bit, has her fumbling to fold the robe in her hands and resume her work if only to keep herself distracted enough to prevent becoming too invested. “Which was?” she prompts, reaching for a pair of thick socks like the ones on her feet.

“She’d already been looking for him,” Granny explains, and that little revelation has a shiver running down Regina’s spine. “She’d heard of his skill, and wanted to procure his services.”

Regina pauses mid-fold and casts a doubtful look Granny’s way. “She sent out soldiers to look for your son,” she says flatly, “so he could bring food to her table. You expect me to believe that?”

“I didn’t say that,” Granny dismisses, but there’s a slight hitch in her voice, like she too, is navigating parts of this conversation carefully. “I said she wanted his services. At the time, that meant there was someone she wanted eliminated. A political matter, she explained, that she wanted handled with more… discretion. She was less willing to get her hands dirty, back then.”

Regina’s brow furrows while she tries to put the pieces of that together. She remembers, vaguely, the whispers in the palace hallways after the king had been found dead. Snow had still been a bit of an enigma to her father’s counsel and advisors, which of course made rumors run rampant. Half of them were convinced they could persuade her to do just about anything: she’d been an agreeable child for the most part, after all, albeit a bit temperamental at times. The other half, though — they were less secure in their positions, and rightfully paranoid, Regina realizes now, that the queen would find a way to have them murdered and make it look like an accident. Fresh start and all that.

Still, hiring an assassin for each individual kill seems like overkill even for Snow, unless she was equally paranoid. “There were plenty of others she could have hired,” Regina points out. “Is that why she chose your son, because no one would really think to suspect him?”

“I’m sure that was part of it,” Granny says, shifting uncomfortably in her chair, “but she knew he was a butcher as well. She had something… special planned, she told him.”

Regina’s stomach churns at the thought; she knows full well Snow’s penchant for complete carnage. “So… what?” she ventures, smoothing out the wrinkles in a shirt. “Did she threaten to harm either of you, if he didn’t agree? Based on what you’ve told me, it just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing he’d choose, and you said before that the alternative—” 

“Not the choice I’m talking about,” Granny dismisses. “I’ll get to that. She offered him plenty of gold, which he didn’t take much of an interest in, but it was enough to get him thinking about what he might be able to get out of her — what he _could_ do, to protect us, without her ever knowing.”

Regina arches an eyebrow in surprise. “His bartering skills would’ve needed to be legendary, for that.”

Granny smiles at that but it’s a sad, wistful sort of thing. “I suppose they were, then, because he got her to agree to the one condition he added to the arrangement.”

“Which was?”

“A law,” Granny says, like it’s a simple thing and not a political chess move in conjunction with the one Snow had tried to make, “banning the killing of all wolves, within the borders of her kingdom.”

“Wolves?” Regina echoes, utterly confused. “I don’t understand — what do wolves have to do with protecting you?”

There’s a long, _long_ pause while Granny’s gaze drifts over her, and really, that should be the first indication that something’s not quite right. But Regina’s mind is not as sharp as it would be, were she not sick, and she’s gone and become invested in Granny’s story, when she’d promised herself she wouldn’t. So really, it shouldn’t come as any surprise when Granny sits up a little straighter and says, quite calmly, “She had no idea he had a family. That law was the only way he could ensure she wouldn’t hunt us down in some capacity, should something happen to him.”

“But then you’d have to be… wolves,” she realizes, voice tapering off toward the end. Fear licks its way through her like wildfire, steals the breath from her lungs and has her shrinking away until she lands against the wall with a dull _thud_. “Wolves, you’re — you’re _werewolves_ ,” she whispers, hardly able to breathe, much less think, and what the fuck, what the fuck, this sort of thing does not _happen_ in her dulled out corner of the world, what the _fuck_ , what horrible thing did she ever do to deserve going out like this?

“Relax,” Granny instructs, patient, almost like she’s trying not to laugh at her, what the _fuck_. “If we were going to kill you, we would’ve done it already.”

“Unless that’s why you’ve put so much effort into helping me heal,” Regina counters, a little wild and her heart is a _hammer_ against her sternum, threatening to shatter like that’ll protect her somehow, oh god, it’s happened, she’s finally losing her mind, fuck. “So I’m actually _edible_ or something—” 

“We don’t _eat_ people, for heaven’s sake,” Granny snaps — _barks_ , that was a bark, it had to be a bark, shit, shit, shit, Regina cannot stop shaking, this is so bad. “Will you please calm down?”

“You’re fucking werewolves!” Regina hisses, more than hysterical, and she is not subtle at all about the way her eyes shift, fall to where her bow is propped up against the side of the hearth. “I think I’m a little entitled to be _not_ calm right now.”

“Okay, let me ask you something,” Granny says, leaning forward in her chair. She stops about halfway, though, when Regina curls impossibly farther away from her, and Regina has the wild, irrational, _insane_ thought that a werewolf is respecting her fucking personal space like it’s her own territory. “Before you knew this, did you once think, the whole week and a half you’ve been here, that we meant to do you harm? After that first night, I mean?”

It’s Red she thinks of first: of good intentions and a watchful eye; of gentle smiles without malice and tender hands with every touch. Granny is there, too: in the careful guidance when Regina had hardly been able to walk; in the thoughtful deliberation when perusing her medicine chest; in the steady rotation of tea, and broth, and what could have been a thousand meals in between, to Regina’s addled mind; in the way her gaze tends to linger a little too long on the curve of Regina’s belly, and her complete inability to mask the way worry weighs down her eyes. And suddenly Regina finds the tremors have begun to subside, and there’s a warmth in her chest that’s a steady balm against fear that won’t entirely go away. “No,” she says, voice quiet, and small. “I didn’t.”

Granny relaxes visibly at the admission — Regina hadn’t even really noticed, just how tense she’d become — and settles back into her chair again, corner of her mouth quirking up into a smile. “Indulge me for a little longer then,” she says, and _there’s_ the amusement she’d tried to suppress a few moments ago, bubbling right below the surface. “Take some comfort in the fact that I can’t shift anymore, at this age, and let me finish this story. You can save the cowering for Red, when she gets home, though I’m going to warn you right now — she won’t take kindly to it. She’s worked very hard to be able to control it.”

The sheer and utter hurt on Red’s face after Regina had lashed out at her, last week, suddenly makes a lot more sense, and all of Regina’s words come back to gnaw at her until all that’s left is guilt — _leaving it to the wolves_ , and _monster_ , laced with venom vicious and every bit an accusation.

No _wonder_ Red has been refusing to speak to her.

“I’ll, uh, try not to be a… bitch,” Regina says, not sure if that was entirely intentional, but the nerves that flutter in her chest disappear almost as soon as they appeared.

Because this time Granny _does_ bark, _laughs_ at what may have only been half-intended as a really, really bad joke, and her smile reaches all the way to her eyes. “Well, what do you know,” she hums, sounding pleased. “I guess sometimes I _can_ get what I want.”

“I wouldn’t count your eggs just yet,” Regina murmurs, forcing herself to relax a little even as she sticks close to the wall. “She’ll have to make an effort not to be one either.”

“Not sure that’s physically possible,” Granny says, and she’s teasing, outright teasing her, like this is normal, to be making jokes about the fact that they’re fucking _werewolves_. “Runs in the family, you see.”

It doesn’t quite sting the same way it did the first time, but it’s enough to have Regina sucking in a breath and reaching for another shirt from the basket just to keep herself occupied (and there’s a flash of something, across her mind, a curiosity about what sort of things she’ll pass on, come spring, when no, _no, stop it_ ). “Did she um — did she agree to it?” she asks, desperate to change the subject. “Snow, did she agree to his condition?”

Another long pause before Granny grants her an answer, not _quite_ as long, but still fraught with the same sort of tension and oh gods, what could possibly be worse than learning she’s been in the company of werewolves, all this time. “She did,” Granny says at last, quieter than before, “and, per their agreement, he devised a plan to isolate her mark to avoid any potential witnesses.”

“You still think awfully well of him, considering he murdered someone,” Regina muses, picking at a stray thread before reaching into the basket once more (tries, fails to ignore the way her heart flutters when she picks up Robin’s scarf).

“I do think well of him,” Granny says, “because he chose not to.”

Regina blinks up at her, equal parts confused and, admittedly, a little surprised. “What?”

There’s something almost… tender, in the way Granny looks at her, and the ache in Regina’s chest twists into something she can’t quite define. “The plan was to take the victim deep into the forest, beyond the palace grounds. On the way there, he found that the intended target was… not as the queen had described. Not cruel, or calloused, certainly not a threat — and absolutely undeserving of the horror the queen desired Roger to inflict. He had a choice,” Granny says, and there is so _much_ knowing in her eyes, “and decided to let the girl go.”

And _there_ it is: not man — _girl_.

_Oh_.

“The Huntsman,” Regina whispers, scarce able to breathe. “The Huntsman — he was your son.”

The few seconds it takes for Granny to nod feel like an eternity, and it’s here, really, that Regina should be the most afraid. Revenge has nipped at her heels ever since that fateful day; this _should_ be the place it comes full circle, should be some poetic justice for the Lucas’. And yet, in the space her heart resides where there should be nothing but warning, and the itch to get the fuck out and _run_ , Regina finds there is nothing less than trust.

Granny is not going to kill her.

“He came to see me, after he spared the girl’s life,” Granny says, as if Regina’s entire world hadn’t just tipped on its axis. “Told me what happened. He knew he’d have to return to the palace — knew the queen was waiting for him.”

“Why didn’t he run?” Regina asks, pushing away from the wall and leaning closer. “He could’ve, right then, could’ve packed what he could carry and taken you both and—” 

“She would’ve found us eventually,” Granny says, and it’s meant to be a gentle reminder but it only has Regina drawing breath, short and shallow.

“You don’t know that,” Regina implores, fingers flexing anxiously against the scarf. “She hasn’t managed to find _me_ , yet, and I’m at the top of her list.”

“And you have no way of knowing just how many times she’s come close,” Granny counters, her tone brooking no argument. “Running meant risking that she would eventually find us, and Roger was not about to put his daughter in danger, just for the chance to save himself. We didn’t even argue about that.”

Instinct coils up tight again, down at her very core, and Regina has not fought this fucking hard to survive these last couple of months, just to save her own skin. There’s a shimmer of a memory at the edges of her mind — a pair of children curled up, against a stormy night — and somewhere in her, she thinks she might well be on her way to understanding the choice Roger Lucas had made.

“So he left,” Regina says, and it comes out broken beyond all help, has her clutching the scarf tight to her chest.

It’s Granny’s turn to lean forward again, but she stops, just at the edge of the seat, and hovers, waiting. “He made me promise to look after Red — not that he really needed to ask. He said he had a plan, to try and deceive the queen, but we both knew even if it worked, it wouldn’t last for long. And then, yes, he left.”

“And when she discovered what he’d done,” Regina says, voice thick with the onslaught of tears that have _nothing_ to do with her condition, “she killed him.”

For a long moment Granny simply… stares at her, clearly deliberating something, but whatever it is her mind is made up in an instant. She’s on her feet and across the room in four quick strides, sinks down in front of the chaise and anchors a hand comfortingly at Regina’s knee. “That murderous witch ordered my son to carve out the heart of an innocent,” Granny murmurs, dark and low (and maybe, Regina thinks idly, just shy of bearing the rasp of a growl), “and when he refused, that _monster_ had him _slaughtered_. And because that apparently wasn’t enough for her, she issued a proclamation across the kingdom,” she adds, a sharp thing that has Regina’s breath hitching around a cough, “and offered sickening amounts of gold for every wolf pelt laid at her feet.”

And in a somewhat rare occurrence, Regina genuinely finds herself at a loss for words. “Granny, I—” 

“Do _not_ ,” Granny warns, hooking her fingers under Regina’s chin to maintain eye contact, “even think about finishing that sentence, girl. You don’t owe me, or Red, an apology. Snow White is the one who murdered my son. Helping to keep alive the girl my son thought worth dying for is the _least_ I can do, to honor his memory.”

“Does Red know?” Regina chokes out.

“She knows he was murdered,” Granny says, “at the hands of someone who hunted him. Back then, that was the most she needed to know — the most I could bring myself to tell her,” she amends, and grief is not Regina’s to possess, or bear.

She’d had it all wrong, before: this is not an end, at the hand of karmic retribution, but a second chance that she’s not sure she could ever, ever do anything to deserve.

_I’m sorry_ morphs into _thank you_ , and unable to hold back tears any longer, Regina tucks her face against Granny’s neck and _cries_. 

“I know you’re scared,” Granny murmurs into her ear after a long moment or two, hand sweeping soothingly along her back. “I know you’ve been trying very hard not to get attached to that babe inside of you for fear of losing it, but honey,” she sighs pulling back just enough to meet Regina’s eyes, “you already are. And that’s _okay_ : it’s not something you have to beat yourself up over. Allowing yourself love — that’s part of who you are.”

Regina sniffs a little, breath coming out shaky and uneven, and she feels her whole heart _splinter_ when she looks down at Robin’s scarf, kept close against her chest. “It didn’t used to be.”

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Granny says. “It just took you a little while to find it.”

“Found it,” Regina laughs wetly, humorless as she looks back up. “Lost it. Might not ever get it back.”

Granny’s lips twist into a slight frown at that, brow knit like she’s not quite sure how to approach this particular sore spot, but she doesn’t have time to mull it over before the front door is opening and startling them both.

“You are going to be so proud of me, Granny,” Red huffs as she stumbles through the door, shivering a little as her body adjusts to the change in temperature. Granny relaxes a little at the sight of her, and Regina fumbles for her handkerchief at long last, hastily wiping at her face. “Got everything on your list — not a single pastry left,” she announces with pride, setting her basket on the table and shaking snow off of her cloak. “ _And_ there were carrots, and cherries, and even Mrs. Stiltskin was there, so I traded her some of your scones — those are her favorite — to get a book I thought Regina might… like,” she says, trailing off once she sees the pair of them together at the chaise.

Gods, this world does not deserve Red’s kindness.

Regina shifts uncomfortably under the weight of Red’s study, but Granny’s much quicker to recover, squeezes affectionately at Regina’s knee and jerks her head toward the hallway. “Why don’t you try and squeeze in a nap, before dinner?” she suggests. “You look a little worse for the wear than you did earlier.”

That’s… probably not entirely untrue, to be perfectly honest, and Regina _does_ feel ten times more tired than she did when she first emerged from the bedroom a little while ago. She knows that’s not _why_ Granny suggested it, but it’s an out she’ll gladly take right now, if only to give herself time to regain her composure before doing what needs to be done. So it’s with an idle nod and an averted gaze that Regina gathers up her (Robin’s) scarf and her handkerchief, wraps the shawl more tightly around her shoulders and shuffles slowly back down the hall.

She pauses, halfway down, to glance back over her shoulder just in time to see Granny’s hand settle at Red’s shoulder, while they peruse the goods Red brought back. “I _am_ proud,” Granny murmurs, a gentle thing Regina almost doesn’t hear from this far, but it has her heart skipping a beat all the same, and a smile pulling at her lips.

She can’t quite bring herself to crawl beneath the covers when she enters the bedroom again, though, not until she’s at least… _tried_ to begin making the most of this second chance. So she busies herself for a few minutes while she’s alone, tends to the candles that have gone out and cleans up the bedside table, rifles through her bag and tries to organize what hasn’t been pulled out.

It takes a little while, but Red does eventually come back into the bedroom with the laundry basket at her hip, the rest of what Regina had left untended folded properly. She doesn’t so much as give Regina a passing glance on her way in, sets the basket down upon the chair and starts putting everything away, one stack at a time. But there’s something altogether less… frosty, about her air, like she’s… thawed, a bit, and Regina figures now is as good a time as any.

“You know,” she muses carefully, settling at the foot of the bed with Robin’s scarf and tucking a leg beneath her, “you were right, before. I don’t think I could take you in a fight.”

Red pauses — just for a split second but it doesn’t escape Regina’s notice — before resuming her work. “Really?” she throws back, and she’s trying, Regina thinks, to sound disinterested. “What made you realize that?”

“I like to think I know my own strength, most of the time,” Regina says, unable to help the smile that curves onto her face. “Most of my experience is with dwarves, or boys,” she adds, fisting the scarf fitfully for half a moment at the memories that evokes (a pained groan from Will, at every elbow to his core; a bemused chuckle from John, carrying _scrappy_ as a compliment for her). She forces the sudden swell of yearning down to dwell upon later, and chances a glance up at the place Red occupies. “I’m not conceited enough to think I can take down a werewolf.”

Another pause — an abrupt halt, really, and then Red’s pushing a drawer shut with just a little too much force, turning a hair too quickly around to face her before settling against the chest of drawers. “Granny told you.”

“She did,” Regina says, and makes a point not to look away.

The odd little quirk of Red’s eyebrow makes Regina feel uncomfortably on display — like she’s some sort of bizarre spectacle that Red has never seen. “You’re still here.”

Regina relaxes her shoulders a little, and dares to offer up the smallest of smiles. “I’m still here.” A beat, and then, “I mean, Granny said that neither of you had any plans to eat me later, or anything, so—” 

It works: Red laughs, actually, full-on laughs, a high, near-yipping thing that Regina would not have noticed if she didn’t _know_. “Well,” Red chuckles, sounding incredibly amused, “Granny probably won’t. She should’ve known better than to speak for me, though. I did eat my boyfriend.”

In an instant, the smile is gone from Regina’s face. “What.”

“I’m kidding,” Red teases, pushing away from the chest of drawers. “It’s not like I swallowed.”

“Oh gods,” Regina groans, burying her face into Robin’s scarf. “This is crazy, this whole fucking world is so crazy.” A beat, and then, forced out of her by sheer will alone, a mumbled, “I can’t believe you think I can handle bringing a child into this insanity.”

Her heart is a too-loud roar in her ears, a steady _ba-bump_ that honestly leaves her feeling a little dizzy, but she relaxes again, breathes a little easier when she feels the bed shift beneath her under added weight. “And I’m still not sure,” Red ventures, “why you think you can’t.”

The thundering of her heart doesn’t ease up even when she pulls the scarf away, but there’s something about _seeing_ Red next to her that makes Regina feel a little more… safe. “I don’t… exactly have much of an example to follow,” she admits, and even after she’s forced them out the words still feel like a heavy weight against her chest. “All I’ve ever had is more of a list of things _not_ to do, which… isn’t entirely helpful.”

It takes a moment for her meaning to sink in, but it does, eventually, hit home. Red sucks in a sharp breath and lets out a soft _oh_ , waits a beat or two before scooting a little closer, not quite close enough to touch. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says gently, ducking her head a little to try and get Regina to look at her. “When I mentioned the orphanage last week — I just thought that, if that was what you really wanted, if you wanted to make sure the child was well cared for, and you didn’t think you could do it yourself —“

“I know that, now,” Regina sighs. “And… for what it’s worth?” She hesitates for a half moment, chews at her lip before finally looking up to meet Red’s eyes (and they _had_ changed color last week, Regina realizes, had glowed apart from the candlelight). “You’re not a monster.”

Red squirms uncomfortably under her gaze. “You didn’t know—” 

“I didn’t need to,” Regina dismisses. “And to be fair, neither did you.”

Red’s answering smile is still a little stiff, tight around the edges, but she lets it go and nudges Regina companionably with her arm before scooting closer, leg brushing against Regina’s. “Can I ask you something, then? And you don’t have to answer it,” she promises, holding up a hand in allowance, “but… I’m curious. This baby clearly has a father _somewhere_. Why were you out there on your own, instead of with him?”

It’s a question she’s managed to avoid the whole time she’s been here, one she still doesn’t particularly want to answer (mostly because it just… _hurts_ , something awful, to keep thinking about him), but she may have reached the point where she can't really avoid answering it anymore. “It’s… a long story.”

“Short version, then,” Red compromises. “I can pull the sordid details out of you later.”

It’s almost enough to make her laugh, just a little, but the prospect of this is almost harder, by comparison. She’s not even sure she knows where to begin. With a sigh, she finally caves and wraps Robin’s scarf around her neck before falling back onto the bed, eyes trained upon the ceiling. “The short version,” she says, toying idly with one end of the scarf, “is that he just… sort of lost himself, somehow. I never quite figured out why, or what happened, but the person I loved was kind of… buried beneath someone else— someone I knew he never wanted to be. And he… said some things,” she confesses, voice growing soft, small at the memory of their last encounter. “Things I never thought he’d say to me. So… I left.”

“That it?” Red prompts, sounding somewhere between disappointed and a little incredulous. “You left? That’s the end of it?”

“Mostly?” Regina affirms, nose wrinkling as she tries to figure out how better to explain. “I did… _try_ , once I realized I was pregnant, and I was starting to get sick. I went back to try and just… _talk_ to him, at least, but when I got there, he was gone.”

“ _Gone_?”

Regina nods, closes her eyes and brings the scarf closer to her face, tries to remember the way it had smelled, just after she left Sherwood. “Camp was broken down, he just… left. I have no way of knowing where he went.” A beat, and then, “I have no way of finding him.”

“But you _do_ want to find him,” Red surmises knowingly, and Regina throws an arm over her eyes in lieu of reply. “Maybe you think you _shouldn’t_ want to, given how things ended between you, but you _do_ want to find him.”

Regina exhales sharply in an effort to keep more tears at bay. “Look, I don’t know how serious you were about the whole eating your boyfriend thing, but just… trust me when I tell you that falling out of love is not as easy as people might think it is, even when you have good reason to stop.”

“So _don’t_ ,” Red says, simple but firm, and Regina lifts her arm away from her eyes just as Red settles all the way down next to her, head propped up by her hand. “Look, I know you’ve got a few years on me — I can’t even imagine being a mom right now — but… I’ve lost enough to know that life is too short to do something as stupid as waste time not going after the things you want.”

Regina lolls her head to the side and offers Red a crooked smile, yearning bubbling up and pushing tears back into her eyes. “Even when I might be too scared to do it?”

“Especially then,” Red insists. She pauses, hesitates for half a moment before tentatively reaching out a hand, eyes locked with Regina’s all the while. Regina watches as Red’s hand drifts down, follows, hovers over the curve of Regina’s belly, and even though she inhales sharply at the prospect she grants silent permission, and nods. Red’s touch is exceedingly light, almost like she’s handling glass, but the gentle weight against Regina’s belly is warm, comforting.

On instinct, her own hand comes up and settles nearby, fingertips barely brushing against Red’s, and for the first time since she’d realized she was carrying Robin’s child, Regina allows herself the luxury — the Hope, of thinking _mine_.

“That’s how you know it’s important,” Red says, smile soft, and warm. “It’s something you can’t bear to lose.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d nearly forgotten, after a good two years away, just how beautiful the view from West End could be.

It’s been one of the things he’d liked most, when he’d first been given a tour of the place. The feeling persisted with every visit — though, admittedly, his attentions were often elsewhere, after a while — and when he’d at last plucked up the courage to make a real go of things, it’d been one of very few things he’d actually been looking forward to, upon moving.

Most manors, estates in the Enchanted Forest tend to be a bit more remote, isolated. It’s part of what Robin had _hated_ , about living in Locksley: it wasn’t a household so much as a stronghold, and every element of design was meant to distinguish him apart as Other.

(Better, his father always said, but Robin could never find the truth in it.)

West End stood apart from all of that, and still managed to hold itself up as distinguished, among those living under its shadow. Situated right at the edge of town, the manor is not nearly as imposing as Locksley had been. It’d been cobbled together with brick, bright red and sturdy, and framed by wood of oak, and cherry, painted green. In an odd sort of way it was almost like a heart— the place each beat of life began, and rippled out into the rest of the town. 

From the third floor, Robin can see out over it for _miles_. Off to the left of the manor sits the barn, and stables, opening up to patches of farmland that stretch far beyond the boundaries, bleeding into the homesteads dotted along the town line like wool woven together. Closer to the manor he sees the carriages tucked away, waiting to be used (only two, he’d been told, because everything was close enough to walk, and they get very little use). The circular path connects one end of the estate to the other, weaves its way through the well-tended garden of poppies and away from the property once more, toward the town church.

Directly in front of the manor gates sprawls the town proper, little lanes of yellow stone spilling, sneaking between thatched cottages and sturdy shops like sun filtering through stormclouds. Smoke spirals from a scattered array of chimneys, encircling the town centre, where the marketplace practically breathes, buzzes with life.

Today, white covers the rooftops across the town, glosses over each path until it’s slick, near-perilous and dusts atop flowers in the garden, and as snow falls, winter settles over Misthaven like a blanket above the ground.

(Regina had been right.)

Still, Robin _adores_ this part of the view, feels connected to the people in a way he’d never been allowed in Locksley, or even in Nottingham, living in Sherwood as he did. It was the closest he ever felt to normal, behind these walls.

Beyond the edges of town, a great field sprawls across the expanse of the land, and there, just before the horizon, is the place the field meets forest, and disappears into the depths of Sherwood.

Home.

“You never were a very good listener.”

Robin exhales heavily, shoulders sagging at the remark, and he indulges himself, just a moment longer, in fixing his gaze upon the place his heart resides.

“I’m just saying,” Zelena sighs, getting Robin to look at her by setting the tray down upon the table with a slightly too-loud clatter, “what’s the point of me going to all this trouble if you’re going to render it useless?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Robin mutters, but he pulls himself away from the window (away from prying eyes) and retreats back into the room. “I heard you the first hundred times you said it.”

“Which means you’re deliberately ignoring me,” she points out, and that too, Robin pays no mind. Begrudgingly he sinks into a chair at the table if only to avoid this argument diverging, spawning off another. “You know, this whole thing would be a lot less taxing on us both if you just did what I told you.”

“I’ve never been much of a follower, have I?” he reasons, and he knows, he knows he’s being a bit of an ass here, is deliberately trying to get under her skin the way she’s tried to force her way under his (and it’s distraction from the memory that stirs up, the ease with which he had followed Regina’s lead, and let love blind him all over again).

(Part of him wonders if he’s ever really known love, at all.)

“You say that like you haven’t done a banner job as a leader, as of late,” Zelena mutters derisively, but she’s decidedly calm, hands steady as she pours them both a cup of tea.

Ire coils up his spine and burns at the base of his neck, and Robin can’t help flicking his eyes up to throw her a dark look. “Is this the price for your help?” he asks, fire curling around to claw at his throat at the sight of her standing there, refusing to look at him, sipping her fucking tea. “Allowing you to berate me at every turn?”

“I don’t _have_ to help you, you know,” she says, a short, clipped thing that has his hand halting, twitching before he finally reaches for his cup. “You’d be nowhere, without me.”

The rim of the cup grazes his lips while he blows lightly to cool the liquid within: the first taste is surprisingly bitter, and burns all the way down. “You say that like it’s some sort of accomplishment,” he scoffs, “to not be entirely heartless.”

Zelena sets the cup and saucer down with enough force that it _should_ break, but doesn’t, just clatters and clinks and echoes sharp and high throughout the room. “You,” she spits, scathing and low, “are the most ungrateful person I have ever met.” She’s lifting the hem of her skirt, petticoats off of the floor and whirling away from him with all the force of a cyclone, leaving Robin to watch her flounce toward the bedroom door. He can’t help rolling his eyes and slouching a bit in his chair. Her temper’s gotten much worse, since he last saw her, and _there’s no reasoning with her when she’s like this, it’s like arguing with the sun_ — 

And then Zelena slows, just long enough to spare a half-glance back over her shoulder before she calls back, “No _wonder_ she left you.”

His teacup is, thankfully, empty when he all but throws it onto the table, but where Zelena’s teacup had remained whole Robin’s chips along the rim, a jagged cut into the porcelain. “She has nothing to do with this,” he dismisses, a hint of warning in his tone as he pushes himself back to his feet.

“She has _everything_ to do with this!” Zelena exclaims, turning on the spot to shoot daggers at him. She looks positively _wild_ : hair long and loose, about her shoulders; neck flushed with frustration; fists curled in an effort to fight back anger; eyes dark, a swimming midnight blue that shines and oh, oh _no_. “ _She_ is the entire reason you’re here,” Zelena argues, voice pitching unusually high, “and _she_ is the reason you left in the first place. So do _not_ , Robin of Locksley, sit there and act like I haven’t fucking earned my right to be this fucking angry with you because I swear to every god above and below this wretched place that I am not above laying a hand upon you if you deserve it.”

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” he bites out, hand gripping the edge of the table _hard_ and of course, of fucking course that’s the thing he fixates on, he can’t get away from it.

“What would you have me call you then, _hmm_?” she prompts— _taunts_ , she’s fucking baiting him, hands anchored firmly at her hips while she stalks slowly toward him, one step at a time. “In case you’ve forgotten, Robin Hood is _dead_.”

( _It would be a shame_ , Regina had confessed, _to see Robin Hood die_ , and he cannot avoid disappointing her, even long after she’d gone.)

All at once he feels the fight sucked out of him, like he’s lost the wind in his sails and there’s nothing quite so bracing against his spine now, knees beginning to give out from under him. His palm presses against the table for purchase, and it’s becoming harder every day, he finds, to be able to look Zelena in the eye. “That’s not what happened,” he says quietly, slowly sinking back down into his chair.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” she drawls, heels a discordant clopping sound against the stone floor as she works her way back to him. “It’s why I made that little rule you seem so keen on breaking multiple times each day.”

“Not that,” Robin murmurs, gingerly picking up the teacup and setting it right. “I meant that’s not why I left. I didn’t...leave you, for her. I left for me.” A beat, and then, forcing himself to meet her eyes, “You wanted… so _much_ for me to belong here, Zelena.”

“Because you _do_ ,” she says sharply, clearly still on the offense even as she slows to a stop, just at the other end of the table. “This is the life you were born into, Robin.”

“It was never who I wanted to be,” he counters, surprised at his own gentleness.

“And being an outlaw was?” she argues, gesturing toward the wall of windows. “Sleeping on dirt, and hay, and cots six inches above the ground, having to pull scraps together for food, getting into skirmishes with local law enforcement, committing _treason_ against the bloody fucking crown— _that’s_ who you wanted to be?”

It shouldn’t surprise him, really — doesn’t, honestly, that she’d resort to a more basal view of the life he’d chosen to live, before (and after) her. But he knows — he _knows_ she has a better understanding of it than that, or had, at one point, and it tries his patience more than he thinks it should.

(For every way that she and Regina are different, there are still so, so many ways in which they are the same.)

“It was always about the freedom to _choose_ ,” he says, unable to help the way it comes out like a reminder, rather than an explanation. “When I was at Locksley, at every turn I felt like my choices were made _for_ me.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she says, but it seems as if he’s struck a nerve. She looks… uncomfortable, really, truly uncomfortable for the first time since he’d awoken, and he can’t help but notice the way it slithers under her skin, has her folding her arms over her chest. “You think I didn’t know that? I gave you… _everything_ ,” she half-whispers, and there’s a quiver in her voice that wasn’t there before. “I laid the entire fucking world at your feet, just so you _could_ make your own choices without fear of reprimand.”

They’re venturing much closer, he realizes, to territory he’s certain neither of them wants to navigate, but they may be too far gone for that now. She’s had ages, to sit alone with her thoughts, and… she’d been right, before. This has been rather a long time coming. “I’ve no doubt they would have been,” he says, trying at the very least to be diplomatic, if not kind, “so long as I was beholden to you. And how long would it have been before those choices ultimately became yours, instead?”

It’s as good as if he’d run a blade through her, the way her breath catches, falls short, shallow. Like she’s had the fight knocked out of her as well, but it’s still not… _quite_ the same. “Was I really so horrible to you,” she breathes, and her eyes are downright glistening now, oh gods, fuck, “that you can only look at me as some sort of _monster_?”

And ah, _there_ it is. “Is that… what you’ve _really_ thought, all this time?” he ventures, leaning forward in his chair. “That I left because of you? Because you thought I couldn’t love you anymore, because of something you did?” He gets a sharp inhale and hard swallow for that, and alright then, they’re pretty much upon the heart of the matter; he supposes he owes her this. “Zelena, I feel a bit like I’m beating a dead horse here,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t about you, or her. I’ve _told_ you: I left for me. It wasn’t about whether or not I loved you.”

“Of course it was,” she says, damn near a whisper and he can see the way frustration flares up, colors her skin when she can’t quite keep her voice from breaking. “You left, and I was left wondering if you ever did.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it, though?” she counters, sharp and shallow and shit. She’s absolutely going to shed tears in the next five minutes, if that, which means if he has any chance of making her understand he has to do it quickly, before she’s completely hysterical. “What was I supposed to think, Robin? Even if you _had_ loved me, and loved me still when you left, the fact that you left at all meant you clearly didn’t love me _enough_.”

Any protest that had been building in his chest is snuffed out almost immediately when Zelena is finally no longer able to meet his gaze. Everything about the way she withdraws has his heart stuttering, twisting in his chest: the way she drops her gaze to the floor; the way her arms slip, tighten around her middle; the sharp inhale that is unmistakably wet; and the gentle way her whole body quivers, just slightly, against the otherwise still air in the room. She is… fighting, furiously hard, to keep her composure, and Robin is suddenly acutely aware of how intimately he knows her. Where anger has always been her first step in times like these, he knows full well the scorched path her fire leaves behind, once it’s finally burned up.

For the first time in what feels like a very, very long time, he can see beneath the hardened edges of her heart — not the Lady of West End, but the girl he’d found himself drawn to in the garden that day, and had at one point wanted to marry.

In ashes, Robin can see _Zelena_.

In an instant, he thinks he can finally see clearly, when not blinded by his pride. It matters little, in the end, why he left, or what his intentions were: Robin had hurt her regardless of all of that, and it is not up to him to decide whether or not he did.

And falling into the thick of winter, Robin’s heart at long last starts to thaw.

“Answer something for me,” Zelena says, and though she won’t look up at him her voice is surprisingly level, all things considered. “The way you felt about her— was it just that… can’t eat, can’t sleep, absolutely maddening sort of consumption that fills up your whole body until you feel like you’re fit to burst?” A beat, and then, “Would you’ve done just about anything, to make her happy?”

( _”Well there’s your problem,” Robin laughs, fingers falling away from the brittle petals. “They’re not getting enough water.”_

_“Well I don’t want to_ drown _them!” Zelena defends, bristling. “Pour it all over them and they get all… droopy. They’ll look like they’re melting.”_

_“Had some experience with that, have you?” he teases, teeth digging into his lower lip when she bats at his arm._

_“It’s no use, is it?” she sighs, a touch over-dramatic. “I just wasn’t born with a green thumb.”_

_“Silver spoon,” Robin affirms, nudging her arm companionably, “but I wouldn’t give up hope just yet. You just need someone to show you how to get your hands dirty.”_ )

Zelena had _loved him_ , even when she set him on a path he wasn’t meant to follow, and all Robin had done was turn her heart to ash.

Suddenly the question is not whether he’s ever really known love (he has, unequivocally, and it was never love that made him blind, but pride, and good intentions marking up a dark path). Now the question becomes a matter of whether or not he’s ever done anything to _deserve_ it, and what in every gods’ name he’s going to have to do to get it back.

And…. _there_ it is.

If he wants it back, he must still possess his own to give, in the first place.

He still loves Regina.

Of course he does, it’s not like he’d ever tried to convince himself otherwise, but it’d been easy to suppress active love without her near. John’s given him a complete ration of shit for it, a thousand times over, in that sort of ham-fisted, passive-aggressive way of his, and Will had pushed, and pushed, to try and force it out of him. And in her absence, the rest of the men had become unusually quiet, and somber, and all too quickly he had gone from spitting venom, in order to vouch for them (for him, for his own bloody fucking pride, fuck, fuck), to wondering if they were still willing to follow.

Robin has made a right fucking mess of things with every wall he’d built, and within the walls of West End he is low enough to see the view of the carnage he’d left behind, in his wake.

He did not leave his heart in Sherwood: Regina took it with her, when she left — after he’d all but broken hers, first.

Fucking shit.

He is, all at once, _exhausted_ , and cold, and there’s a sharp twinge of pain all across his abdomen when he twists just slightly the wrong way that leaves him wincing and resting an elbow on the table, head propping up his hand. “For what it’s worth, Zelena,” he murmurs, and he’s so _tired_ , gods, how long has he been this fucking knackered, “I _am_ sorry. And I know— I know it doesn’t matter much, but I really never intended to hurt you.”

Somewhere in all of his absent wallowing, Zelena has become remarkably composed, considering how close to tears she was just a few moments ago, and the edge in her voice is both reflective of her, and the armor she’s employed against him. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she says, derisive and dry. She’s not letting him off easy— hasn’t, this whole bloody time he’s been here, and where perhaps it was merely inevitable, or deserved before, Robin finds that it might be altogether _necessary_ now. “I’m sure you never meant to hurt her, either, and yet here we are.”

Both elbows on the table now — his manners are fucking abhorrent — as Robin buries his head in his hands, table spinning beneath him (and there’s the little shard from his teacup, porcelain stark against the wood grain). It’s a half moment (or he thinks it is, anyway, his perception of time has gotten away from him a bit, while he’s been here) before the tell-tale sound of Zelena’s shoes against the floor echoes, pierces its way closer, and the grating of the adjacent chair’s legs when she pulls it out is like dragging sandpaper made of seashells over his eardrums. And for fuck’s sake, he’s become too sensitive, too tempermental about the most inconsequential things, he’d fucking flown off the handle at Regina for perfectly reasonable worrying— 

“I feel like a damned fool,” he breathes, hardly able to see straight, and where he expects tension in the air, to his right, he finds none.

“You _are_ an idiot,” she says, and there’s a hint of teasing, behind the truth, but all Robin can hear is Regina in those words, and rapid-fire they make a sharp _crack_! in his veneer.

His heart feels like a fucking drum rattling his chest, and it’s all he can do to draw breath against it, eyes squeezing shut at the sudden onslaught of tears. “I’ve no idea where to begin with her,” he breathes. “And I can’t just make it up to you, Zelena, not the way you— not the way I think you might want me to,” he amends, and there too, crop up more of his faults. Always jumping too quickly to what may well end up being a very wrong conclusion, and that breaks something in him open too. Regina is much the same, and it’s no wonder, really, that a love that volatile would burn in unforgiving ways.

The twinge in his abdomen flares up again, fractals crawling up and around his side like the maw of a beast. It’s that, funnily enough, which allows him to breathe easier, once the pain subsides. At least here there’s something for him to latch onto, and build upon with time. Slowly, he shifts his head back into one hand and dares to look at her again, not entirely surprised when he finds her glaring stonily back at him. “This, though,” he ventures, sniffing a bit as his fingers dance featherlight, along his side. “I’ve done a piss-poor job of showing it, but I’m not ungrateful for what you’ve done, Zelena. You were right: I really didn't think about where I might be, if not for you.” A beat, and then, much softer, “I owe you a debt.”

The way she arches an eyebrow at him has him squirming uncomfortably in his chair, though he can’t quite explain why. “You really want to repay me for all this?”

“Within reason,” Robin amends, faltering slightly, “and as much as I’m able.”

Something about the irritation in her expression tells him she’s suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at him, but Zelena is perfectly willing to take, it seems, now that he’s finally opened the door. Too quickly she removes her feet from where they’d been propped up on the chair opposite her (he hadn’t even noticed, before now, just how comfortable she’d made herself amidst his misery). “Then do me a favor,” she says, leaning much, much too close to him over the table. “Swallow your goddamn pride and _go after your girl_.”

And that’s… oh. That’s really not what he’d been expecting, with his former fiance about a foot away from his face, not at all. But in the place where he should be bewildered by her encouragement, or even touched, Robin finds nothing but the darkest corners of his heart where old habits die hard. “Why does that sound an awful lot like laying the world at my feet?” he muses and seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him these days?

Zelena hardly misses a beat. “It’s like you _want_ me to slap you. No, listen to me,” she says, before Robin’s halfway opened his mouth to reply. She startles the breath out of him when her fingers hook beneath his chin to bring him level with her, has it hitching when she doesn’t withdraw her hand but keeps the point of contact, if only to force him to meet her eyes. “I don’t know what happened to you to make you push her away, and quite frankly, I don’t really care.

“But you _broke my heart_ ,” she says, voice shaking slightly, and for an admission she really, really did not want to make, it’s more important to her, it seems, that he hear it flat out. “And now? You’ve gone and broken hers.” Robin swallows the bitterness of that hard truth, feels it cut like knives along his throat all the way down and the sting has his eyes bleeding with regret (and the essence of yearning, longing, threatens to spill over at long last). “If those are the kind of choices you’re going to make, then maybe you don’t deserve that right. Because if this is all you’re going to do, Robin of Locksley—” he flinches, at the title, but Zelena pays it no mind “— if you’re just going to go through the fucking rest of your life leaving a trail of broken hearts in your wake, then it means all of it was a horrible, goddamn waste. You loving her, leaving me, taking up the mantle of Robin Hood? All of it will mean fucking nothing, if you don’t follow through on what you keep swearing was the reason you left me in the first place— if you don’t _make a choice_ to be better than you were.

“If you left me to be who you really are, Robin, _do it_ , before it’s too late. Otherwise, there isn’t going to be anyone left for you _to_ be.”


	5. Chapter 5

_”Will you be much longer?” Regina asks, trying not to fidget under Tahlia’s touch. “I think they mean to start the fire, soon.”_

_“Be patient, Miss Regina,” Tahlia says, with all the authority a twelve-year-old can muster. “The prettiest things take the most time.”_

_“Ah,” Regina teases knowingly, teeth digging into her lower lip. “Yours must’ve taken all day, then.”_

_Tahlia pauses, just long enough for her cheeks to flush pink with pride, before she resumes her work, fingers working nimbly on Regina’s hair. “Papa says I’m good with my hands.”_

_“So I’ve heard,” Regina says, forcing herself to sit still instead of picking at the remnants of flora and foliage Tahlia had selected for the task. “Your father told us you’ve been trying to patch up the last of the holes in the walls and roof, when your mother’s off at market.”_

_Out of the corner of her eye, Regina can see Tahlia’s nose wrinkle, lips twisting into a frown. “The roof was leaking, when the rain started this year,” she explains. “Skip had a cold for weeks.”_

_“I remember,” Regina murmurs, toying idly with the edges of her scarf (Robin’s, technically, but she steals it often enough that it hardly matters). “Friar Tuck came down to the village three days a week to see him.”_

_Tahlia’s quiet a moment, stems bit between her teeth while she works at the back of Regina’s hair. “I thought… It rained so much, this year, Mama and I thought winter would be worse.” A beat, and then, “But it hasn’t even snowed yet, this year.”_

_“It has been unseasonably warm,” Regina affirms with a sigh, flexing her fingers against the sharp snap of chill as dusk settles in over the village. “Still, your efforts won’t be wasted, Tahlia. Even if we only see snow a handful of times before the spring, the house will hold up better when the rain starts up again next year.”_

_“And your camp will be all muddy again,” Tahlia grumbles. “I still think it’s silly you all don’t go into town, when the weather gets bad — or at least come down to the village. Mister Otto’s barn is more than big enough for all the Merry Men—”_

_“You know why we don’t venture into the village often, Tahlia,” Regina reminds her, tries to be gentle, kind but firm. “It’s not safe for us to be out in the open, in Nottingham. The only reason we came down for Yuletide this year is because Prince John extended an invitation to the sheriff, for the feast.”_

_“I know,” Tahlia says softly, fingers threading idly through Regina’s long locks to work out the last of the tangles. “It’s just — there’s talk of Prince John raising taxes again. It’s why Mama’s been going to market more.” A beat, and then, “The villagers are happier, when you all come down to visit. They worry less.”_

_“I’d certainly hope so,” Regina teases, a hint of bemusement in her voice as Tahlia moves back around in front of her again. “The amount of coin those boys pilfer should be enough to put anyone’s mind at ease. Well, perhaps not Prince John,” she adds as an afterthought, trying not to laugh. “Or the sheriff.”_

_“You know that’s not what I meant,” Tahlia huffs, but she doesn’t press the issue, just stands hovering over Regina with her hands settled on her hips, surveying her handiwork._

_“Well?” Regina prompts. “Do I look presentable enough for our little festival?”_

_“I think the queen has good reason to be jealous,” Tahlia declares, glancing around their corner of the campfire before spotting an empty silver platter and holding it up for display. “But why don’t you tell me?”_

_It takes a supreme amount of effort not to rolls her eyes at the notion — the rumor, really, that somehow still manages to persist long after Snow had ordered the huntsman to carve out her heart. Tahlia means well, Regina knows, and it’s Yuletide, after all; it wouldn’t do to be unkind._

_So it’s with a resigned sigh that Regina ducks down a little to get a glimpse at her somewhat distorted reflection in the platter Tahlia’s picked up as a makeshift mirror. Tahlia_ is _good with her hands, Regina will give her that: she’s somehow managed to take the usually half-tangled mess Regina’s hair is on a good day and make it almost… tame, by comparison. Without a braid to hold it together, her hair falls, hits just shy of her waist in gentle waves (and that… feels good, Regina realizes, causes less tension in her head overall). The true masterpiece of Tahlia’s work, though, is the flower crown she’s painstakingly woven together with wire and twine, buds and leaves and berries artfully arranged around Regina’s head. It’s not the bright yellow of winter jasmine Tahlia had chosen for herself, but a soft mix of pink and white — viburnum, Regina thinks, based on the blossoms she’s seen around camp these last few weeks._

_It’s the holly berries that stick out the most, a vibrant, brilliant red that brings out the lighter tones, in her eyes. She looks —_ feels _... pretty, almost, in a way she usually doesn’t give much thought to, and while she can’t find fault in Tahlia’s handiwork, Regina also can’t help the flare of warning that rises against her sternum, instinct coiling up tight (protective) and low in her belly. “Skip didn’t get into the berries, did he? I know you know better than to eat them, Tahlia, but he’s only three—”_

_“Those are all I could find, don’t worry,” Tahlia dismisses with a wave of her hand. “As long as he doesn’t eat your crown, I think he’s safe.”_

_“Alright,” Regina drawls,_ tsk _ing a little as she pinches playfully at Tahlia’s side. “Go back to the cottage and fetch your parents so we can get started.”_

_“You’re welcome,” Tahlia says, practically sassing her for the reprimand, and Regina has to bite her tongue as Tahlia skips off, laughing all the while._

_(Regina is not a mother — Tahlia’s, or anyone else’s. It’s not her place to look after them.)_

_Still, she’s in a mostly agreeable mood by the time the men begin making the rounds, passing out small mugs of hot cider. The heat is like heaven against her bare hands; she’d been a bit… distracted, right before they left camp for the village (blames Robin, for that, and the ease with which he always manages to have her shivering to pieces, under his touch), and had neglected to fetch her gloves from the tent before heading out. Still, the chill isn’t too bad, even as they lose the light, and they’re lucky this year, Regina thinks, to have such a mild winter._

_By the time the rest of the villagers finally arrive (not all, Regina knows, there are some who will not take the risk even with the sheriff gone and the festival on the outskirts), the last vestiges of dusk are clinging to the forest floor. It’s Tuck who rises to his feet first, voice booming across the glen where they’re gathered as he recites the history of Misthaven’s Yuletide. Most of it, Regina’s heard before, but it had always been in pieces, when she was younger, the tidings secondhand. She finds herself grateful, tonight, to be able to blend in with those none the wiser; it saves her the discomfort of being confronted with her patchwork knowledge, and prevents the prying questions people have no right to ask of her._

_Robin catches her eye, across the glen, and the little quirk of his smile tells her it’s likely he knows where her thoughts have drifted, just now. It takes her a second to piece that together, and Regina’s heart skips a beat, at the thing that’s implied._

_On the days when Robin is being a particularly irksome thorn in her side, Regina tries to remember moments like these, when she remembers why, exactly, she’d lost her heart to him in the first place._

_Her hands are warm, apple cider sweet, a twinge sharp with cinnamon on her tongue, when Tuck finally kneels in front of the Yule log they’ve procured for their cobbled together little festival. He sparks a flame, just as they lose the last of the light, and within moments the roar of the fire is deafening against her ears — almost like he’d pulled magic out of thin air, with only the elements at his beck and call. This tradition, Regina remembers well, and she can’t quite help the way her gaze drops to her nearly empty mug, eyes stinging wet._

_(“We’re meant to make a wish,” Snow had explained, “but only the children do that.” And she had been older, wiser against Regina’s young heart of nine, but wishes are kept secret, and so Regina had lied, when Snow asked if she’d made one.)_

_It’s been a few years shy of two decades, since then, but tonight, Regina closes her eyes and wishes for the same thing she has every year — long before the age of nine, or she ever knew the traditions of Yuletide._

_Before Snow, when all Regina had was a cold silence from stars scattered across the night sky._

_She chooses not to dwell on it like the others, though, but stays silent while the tradition is observed. Her eyes skim over the small crowd as she lifts the mug to her mouth again, stops just shy of her lips as her eyes land to the right of the fire — to where Robin is kneeling, with young Skip in his hands. Her brow wrinkles for a moment, memory a little fuzzy while she mulls over this particular part of the ritual, but it’s plain soon enough what they aim to do._

_There’s a pair of large candles — from the market, Regina knows, she’s seen them at Lumiere’s stand — at Skip’s feet, waiting to be lit. He’s the youngest, of all the children present tonight, fits into the role designated for this task by tradition, but the poor kid can barely wrap his tiny hands around the candle’s width, it’s so large. It’s why Robin’s stepped in to help, she imagines, his hand wrapping around Skip’s while they tip the candle ever so carefully toward the fire._

_Skip’s eyes spark in tandem with the wick catching flame, grin stretching wide across his face while he gasps, and laughs, whole body wiggling in place. The whole thing’s rather precious, quite honestly, but that same twisting coil from earlier gnaws at her core again, has her sucking in a breath at the nearness of the fire, and Skip’s precarious hold._

_She needn’t worry, though: Robin’s hands are steady where Skip’s are not, and it’s with the utmost care that Robin sets the candle back down on the ground, and helps Skip reach for the other. She breathes a little easier at that, lips curving up into an idle smile along the rim of her mug, and watches them work together to light the last one, Robin’s hand curved carefully around Skip’s waist._

_Skip is practically beaming once Robin’s set the second candle next to the other, chest puffed up with pride and utter delight at being chosen, but Regina only has eyes for Robin. There’s relief, around the edges of his eyes, but Robin is all smiles, murmurs soft and low into Skip’s ear before tousling his hair and sending him back to his family. Skip’s hushed shriek of excitement when he reaches Tahlia is almost piercing, against the silence, but Regina can hear nothing beyond the thunder of her own heart echoing in her ears. Feels it grow louder still as it picks up pace, watches Robin arrange the candles strategically around the edges of the firepit, lingers on the way his whole expression turns tender, against the glow and heat of the fire and oh, oh._

_That’s… new. New, and a bit alarming, frankly, and Regina forces the rest of her cider down if only to distract herself from the way her stomach flips, flutters and leaves her downright dizzy at the thought. And then Robin’s eyes find hers once more, through the fire, and Regina nearly sputters, chokes at the warmth with which he considers her._

_She forces herself to push the sudden surge of yearning down deep: love is a luxury they can barely afford, and it does not do, she knows all too well, to dwell on dreams._

_(Only children make wishes, and Regina is not a mother.)_

_Still, she can’t ignore the feeling entirely, particularly where Robin’s lingering gaze is concerned, and another mug and a half of spiced cider later finds Regina’s face overwarm when Robin finally settles down against the log next to her. “You’re rather flushed,” he observes, quirking a cocky little smile at her. “Will didn’t even spike the cider for the adults, tonight.”_

_“We’re sitting in front of a fire, Robin,” she deadpans, arching an eyebrow at him._

_“Fair enough,” he allows. He hesitates, just for a beat before reaching over to gently pry the mug out of her hands. “I just thought,” he muses, setting the mug aside, “that perhaps your mind was elsewhere.”_

_“Such as?”_

_“Oh, I don’t know,” he sighs, feigning ignorance as he turns back to her. “Maybe… this afternoon?” A beat, and then, much lower, “In our tent?”_

_There’s a traitorous pulse between her thighs, has her growing slick and her cheeks positively burning at the reminder, but it’s far too early in the evening to consider sneaking off back to camp. “Down, boy,” she murmurs, but she curls into his side all the same, hooks her arm with his companionably. “The night is still young.”_

_Robin_ hmm _s in reply, noncommittal, just wraps an arm around her to tug her a little closer. But he behaves, and for a good long while Regina finds herself content to stay tucked into his warmth while they observe the others in their jolly. Alan’s tending the stew — has been slaving over it most of the day, Regina knows, and the thought of boar for the first time in almost a year is enough to have her mouth watering. John is… well, Regina’s not entirely sure where John is, but he must be milling about somewhere, and Will._

_Oh, Will._

_Will’s claimed a low stump at the far end of the gathering, back bathed by moonbeams. Most of the children have flocked to him, sprawled out in a half-circle while they nibble on bread baked fresh for the occasion. He has them absolutely captivated, damn near entranced as he hunches over and keeps his voice down low, telling the tall tale of horses galloping through the clouds as ghosts make hunt along the night sky. There’s a collective startled shout when he starts forward abruptly, mimicking the spectres’ descent to the ground, and Regina doesn’t even bother trying to suppress an exasperated sigh. “He’s going to give them nightmares,” she mutters against Robin’s chest._

_“They’ll be alright,” he murmurs. “It’s all in good spirits. Speaking of,” he adds, pulling away a little to look at her properly and tapping lightly at her flower crown, “I take it this was Tahlia’s handiwork.”_

_The dismissal of her concern is... irritating, to say the least, but she doesn’t have the heart for ire — doesn’t want to fight, not tonight. “I haven’t observed Yule properly in almost a decade. It seemed a good time to embrace being festive, while I have the chance.”_

_“Very festive,” he chuckles, reaching over to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. “Truthfully, I’m glad for it. Normally it’s just us, at the camp, without much fuss or fanfare. It’s been a good few years since we’ve been able to celebrate like this, with the villagers. The circumstances haven’t exactly allowed for it, between the weather and the extra patrols.”_

_“You wanted to take advantage of it, now that they’re more in your favor,” she surmises._

_He nods, but the admission has his smile faltering, teeth digging into his lower lip like he’s reluctant to make another. “I worry, sometimes.”_

_Her brow knits at that, mind mulling over what he might mean, but her concern manifests more in the touch of her hand — in the idle sweep of her thumb over the ridges of his knuckles. “About?” she prompts._

_He draws in a breath and pauses, gaze drifting out over the gathering once more, but his hand stays in hers, seeks comfort, in her touch. “Losing our roots,” he says, and it’s not without difficulty — she can hear it in the slight edge to his voice, the way it strains over the words. “It’s not — we don’t have ties to everyone in the village. Some people aren’t comfortable accepting the help, given the way we operate, and that’s fine. The others understand a bit better — they’re grateful to have people looking out for them.”_

_“But?”_

_“You’ve not yet been with us a full year,” he says, gaze dropping to where their hands touch, “but I know you’ve noticed — the time between our visits here grows further apart each time. It’s just not as safe as it used to be, thanks to the bloody sheriff and I…” He sighs, heavy, long, halts the movement of her thumb and laces their fingers together, instead. “I worry they’ll think we’ve forgotten about them, or that we’ve stopped caring, and then they’ll lose sight of what it is that we aim to do for them.” A beat, and then, “If that happens, Regina, then what are we even fighting_ for _, anymore?”_

_Regina hooks her fingers beneath his chin and tilts up, forces him to meet her eyes again. “You give them_ hope _,” she implores, a warm, fervent thing that flares up, from the depths of her soul. “You give them hope where they wouldn’t have it, otherwise. That’s not something easily forgotten, Robin, especially —“ She pauses, just for a half moment, to look out upon the gathering once more, and when she turns back to Robin her fingertips fall, land gently over his heart. “Especially when it looks like this.”_

_That earns her a half-smile, crooked and a touch melancholic around the edges. A beat, and then he’s reaching for the hand she’s pressed against his chest, his thumb smoothing over her palm (and damn, that’s distracting, has her adjusting her legs slightly against arousal). “And how does this look, exactly?”_

_“Definitely not like any Yule I’ve ever seen,” she quips (has to, because anything less than light makes the rest of her words impossible to get out). She gives herself the space of a few beats to resituate herself — presses against him, really, thigh to knee, and resists the urge to slink into his lap. Her eyes fall, settle on the place their hands touch before she finds her voice again. “We never had anything like this, at the orphanage,” she says, a hair fainter than she wants it to be. “At the palace, it was — they didn’t celebrate, like we’re doing here. They observed. Everything was about standing on ceremony, like…”_

_“Holly.”_

_Regina blinks up at him, startled and more than a little confused. “What?”_

_“Holly,” he repeats, tapping feather-light against the berries woven into her flower crown. “Pretty, but not much substance — and damning,” he adds, “if treated otherwise.”_

_Her lips twist with the effort not to laugh at him, and she’s entirely unable to bite back the grin that overtakes her. “That’s a rather artfully constructed metaphor.”_

_“Cheeky,” he murmurs, fingers slipping beneath her sleeve to tickle slightly at her wrist. It has her squirming, toeing the line between pulling away and leaning into his touch, laughing all the while and she doesn’t giggle when his lips buss against the shell of her ear, she doesn’t, she doesn’t, she doesn’t. And somewhere, in the midst of all that full-bodied laughter, sits a heart no longer hollow, that leaves her burning bright._

_(Perhaps, she dares to believe, wishing isn’t quite so childish, after all.)_

_Alan finally declares supper done, around the time Robin has pushed her hair back over her shoulder, his lips lingering in the space between grazing kisses and sucking marks along her neck. Regina has to practically shove a bowl into his hands to get him to ease off a bit, which… to be fair, he does, but not without a murmured_ ’m craving something sweet _, breath hot and damp against her ear._

_She does not —_ does not _spend half the rest of the night fantasizing about his face between her thighs. She doesn’t._

_(Okay maybe she does. A little.)_

_She’s halfway through her own bowl when John finally emerges from the shadows lugging one end of a crate, Will on the other side. She chews thoughtfully for a moment while she watches them set it down, quirks an eyebrow when they call the children over, swallows down when she starts to put the pieces together. Slowly, the pair of them start unearthing the contents of the crate in turns, each of them turning smiles far brighter than she’s used to on each of the children in kind._

_It’s only when John pulls out a small wooden horse, carved meticulously and painted fine, and hands it down to young Skip, that the truth strikes Regina at last. Her temper gets the better of her, for a hot second, has her dropping her spoon into the bowl with a disgruntled clatter. “I thought we’d agreed we weren’t going into the North Kingdom anymore,” she says thinly, resisting the urge to even glance sidelong in Robin’s direction._

_A beat, and then, sounding actually remorseful about it, “I know.”_

_“So tell me,” she huffs, setting her bowl down with a dull_ thunk _. “This code of yours: is it more actual rules, or just general guidelines because —“_

_“Hey,” he murmurs gently, setting his own bowl down and leaning in to nose affectionately at her temple. “I’m sorry, alright? Not for going — I won’t apologize for that — but for keeping it from you. I didn’t want you to worry.”_

_Her answering exhale is sharp, heavy as she turns slightly to meet his eyes. “Being lied to is just going to make me worry more. You don’t just… get to decide what risks are acceptable to take, Robin. Nottingham isn’t safe enough to venture into often, but Snow’s kingdom is suddenly neutral territory? That’s a double standard, and you know it.”_

_“I didn’t say it wasn’t dangerous,” he counters, and gods, she could just… smack him, for arguing technicalities with her. “But it’s done, Regina, we can’t go back and make it otherwise. Besides, we came back in one piece, didn’t we? No harm done.”_

_“That’s not the point,” she argues, but it ends up muffled, lost against the press of his lips against hers. She’s torn, for a good half moment, between pushing him away and denying him the veritable kiss-and-make-up he’s trying to initiate prematurely, and leaning into it because, well. He hasn’t kissed her, properly, since just after they’d arrived in the village, and that was hours ago — before Tahlia had turned her into Temptation personified; before warmth against her hands and ghosts in the sky; before she’d seen tender take on new meaning in Robin’s eyes, against the wild wonder of a child._

_It’s that, really — the memory zinging down and bursting, dancing like fireflies in her belly — that has her opting for the latter. She’s not letting this go, not by a long shot, but she really, really doesn’t want to fight tonight, at least not at their absolute worst. “You know,” she mumbles into his mouth, fingers curling, nails digging into his thigh, “you didn’t actually have to go.”_

_“Regina,” he bemoans, kissing her a little harder, more insistent._

_“I’m serious,” she says, feeling equal parts victorious and irritated with herself as Robin heaves a great sigh and drops his forehead to her shoulder. She chews at her lower lip before reaching up, fingers trailing lightly along the nape of his neck. “You could’ve hired a go-between,” she reasons, attempting to sound kind. “There was no real reason you needed to journey up to Geppetto’s — to pay the commission, or collect the gifts.”_

_He frowns ever so slightly against her neck before lifting his head to look at her properly. “We didn’t — that’s not why we went.”_

_“Then why did you?”_

_He doesn’t answer immediately, shifts his gaze to the crown atop her head and reaches out to toy with the ends of her locks, twisting and twirling all the while. “John and I — we wanted to do something special, for the children,” he says at last, still not quite meeting her eyes. “They rarely have the opportunity to celebrate, during Yuletide, and Skip — poor lad hasn’t had a proper one at all.”_

_“He’s three, Robin,” she points outs needlessly, unable to keep the tinge of amusement out of her voice. “I doubt he would’ve remembered even if he had.”_

_“There’s a chance he’ll remember this one,” Robin argues, “or at least parts of it, anyway. Still, it — it didn’t seem right, to go about paying for it with a stolen purse, but we knew we’d never be able to drudge up enough funds honestly to do it proper. Geppetto was willing to compromise.”_

_“What was his price?”_

_“Game,” Robin says simply, fingertips drifting, trailing along her collarbone. She knows what he’s doing, knows he’s aiming to distract her before she has a chance to catch on, but she allows it, for the time being, and tries not to shiver under his touch. “It’s not as easy for him to move around like he used to, these days — harder still to make a decent hunt. He wanted reserves, for the winter, in case markets were in scarce supply.” A beat, and then, “He wanted to make sure his boy was well kept.”_

_At that, most of the fight (what little was there to begin with, anyway) melts out of her, she cannot help it. “If anyone ever had the audacity to think you had anything other than their best interests at heart,” she says, voice soft, to match the edges of her smile when Robin turns his eyes to her once more, “they’d be a damn fool.”_

_He grins, a half-cocky little thing that still somehow manages to come across as warm. “You really are in quite festive spirits tonight, aren’t you?” he muses, brushing a stray lock away from her brow._

_“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters, but there’s no heat, no ire in it, and her eyes are already fluttering shut before he’s halfway to a kiss._

_“Miss Regina!”_

_She sucks in a breath just as Robin’s lips start to graze against hers, moistens her lips and breathes_ later _in the space between before pulling back to give Skip her full attention. “Yes?”_

_“This one’s for you,” he declares, haphazardly pressing a small, wooden box into her hands. He’s spinning on his heel and ambling back toward the others before she can even so much as stutter out a_ thank you _. More than a little bewildered, Regina looks up to Will, who shakes his head, and then to John, who sells Robin out with a deftly pointed finger almost immediately._

_“Oh, spoilsport,” Robin grumbles when Regina turns an arched eyebrow at him. Still, he reaches for the box all the same and gently pries the lid off for display. His hands are steady but he’s… squirming, almost, like he’s uncomfortable over something as silly as giving her a gift. She chooses not to tease him for it and shifts her attention to the box’s contents, instead._

_Nestled inside is a small pendant, about half the size of a coin, looped onto a thin, delicate silver chain. Curiosity piqued, Regina reaches for it, fingers prying it deftly from the box to get a better look. Bronze, she thinks, but generally well kept, molded into the shape of a tree with long, wild branches that reach out, touch the edges of the circle that encompasses it. It’s really nothing to fuss over — bears no gems or diamonds or crystals that would tempt the fingers of, well, thieves — but it suits her, she thinks, as something more simple._

_It’s that, really — the notion that he’s nervous about something so unassuming — which pushes her back toward teasing, if only to soothe his seemingly frayed nerves. “I take it you and John made a little detour, between here and the North Kingdom.”_

_It only sort of works, earns her a quirk of a smile, in reply, and a laugh that’s more anxious, than warm. “Not quite,” he chuckles. “I’ve had that in my possession a rather long time.”_

_“Oh?”_

_A beat, long enough for him to reach out, dance his fingertips along the length of the chain, and then, “It belonged to my mother.”_

_Oh. That’s — oh._

_It’s her turn to shift, squirm uncomfortably; she’s at a loss, really, for the right words here. “How… long have you had it?” she ventures, and yes, that’s great, that’s fine, that’s not awkward at all._

_“Nigh two decades, if my memory serves me correctly,” he sighs. His fingers halt, hover over the necklace before he makes to pry it delicately from her palm. Carefully, he sets the box aside, away from the fire, before unhooking the clasp of the necklace and leaning in closer._

_It’s not until he’s in her space, lips near her ear and fingers warm against her neck while he brings the chain around and works on fastening the clasp, that Regina allows herself to speak (finds comfort, really, in the fact that she doesn’t quite have to look him in the eyes, when she asks). “Why give it to me now?”_

_Robin too, waits to give his reply — until after he’s made sure the necklace is secure, adjusts it about her neck so it rests properly against her chest (just above the swell of her breasts, and it doesn’t escape her notice that his gaze lingers a little longer there, even when she’s all covered up). Only when he pulls back again and can do the thing she couldn’t — can meet her eyes, against the firelight, does he give her an answer. “It holds more value for me, than jewels or fine silks, and I — I just…” Here he falters, trips, stutters over his words, and the pendant is like an anchor against her chest, keeping her heart bound._

_“I just wanted you to have something to call your own,” Robin says, voice soft and… unusually small. A beat, and then, like an admission, “There’s so little I can really give you, at the end of the day.”_

_All at once, the world narrows down to his heart: to eyes a captivating blue; to a voice that wraps itself around her like a barrier against a storm; to hands rough and callused, and somehow still soft to touch, with all of their blazing warmth. Everything around them fuzzes, fades away — gone are fire, and ghosts, and all who walk among the living — as the anchor pulls Regina forward._

_Half in his lap, she loops her arms around his neck and leans in close, forehead coming to rest gently against his. “You,” she says, a fervent thing barely above a whisper, “have already given me so much_ more _than I have ever had before.”_

_When her lips capture his once more, Regina lets her kiss say what she knows her words cannot, and convey the secrets of the wish she’d made: home._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The knock on the front door startles all three of them.

There’s a long, weighted beat between them as they stop what they’re doing, idle chatter ceasing instantaneously. Each of them looks to the door in turn — Regina’s stomach clenches, drops like lead — and they wait, just a few beats more.

Another knock, a staccato of threes, louder, harder, more insistent than before, and where Regina cannot breathe Granny is the first to move, rising from her chair and enclosing a hand around Regina’s arm. “Come on,” she murmurs, tugging a little to help Regina to her feet. “Let’s get you into the back room.”

Regina follows half-blind, stumbles a little and grips Granny’s hand tight until her knuckles turn white. “Stay in here,” Granny half-whispers, guiding her gently into the room. “Away from the window — in the far corner, okay? Behind the chair. Try to stay out of sight.” Regina nods in agreement, panic blurring her mind and carving out space in her chest until she’s half-hollow.

They haven’t had a visitor, not the whole time she’s been here, not since they’d found her out by the well. Red is usually the one who’s ventured into the town proper, these last couple of weeks, to barter or buy as they’ve needed. Granny’s the better liar, between them, and Regina, well.

Regina is healing, a little at a time, and has no desire to be found — at least, not by those who would aid the queen in her quest, and seek to carve Regina’s heart out of her chest. Part of her wishes that all of her ache, and yearning, would allow her chest to actually be hollow at Snow’s damning touch.

Regina has, after all, left her heart back in Sherwood — well, most of it, anyway.

It’s the new voice that travels from the front of the cottage — male, somehow hushed and still too-loud — which snaps Regina back to reality, and finds her trembling in the corner on the ground, knees pulled up tight against her chest. “They’re coming,” the man says, sounding a touch breathless. “The Royal Guard — they’re on their way to the village as we speak. You should — some of us, at the edge of town, we’re packing what we can.”

_Shit_.

Granny’s voice filters down the hall in reply, steady, calm, and maybe tinged with a little ire. “There’s no way you’ll make it out in time.”

“Not before,” the man says, sounding almost curiously kind. “After. Once they’ve arrived, and searched the village and found nothing, and left. We’re leaving then.”

Each breath grows more shallow as Regina’s eyes dart about the room from her hiding place, taking stock of what few possessions she’s carried with her since she left Sherwood. Most of her supplies are still tucked away in her bag, propped up against the wardrobe; inside, her lone set of spare clothes hangs next to Red’s colorful, well-kept fabrics. Her bow, and quiver, are out in the front room next to Granny’s, which means she’ll have to duck back out there after the man is gone, and risk being seen. Before her, the chair contains the last: boots, tucked beneath the seat, just out of reach of her toes; cloak, draped over the back out of convenience, to protect against the draft.

Atop the cloak sits Robin’s scarf, and Regina reaches for it carefully now, clutches it to her chest and tries, just for a minute, to remember how to take a deep breath.

“Red,” Granny says, startling Regina back into focus, and her voice is uncomfortably sharp, warning.

“No,” Red protests, sounding every bit the seventeen she is and gods, what has Regina missed in the last moment while she was starting to plan her escape? “I just don’t get it. If it’s just the Royal Guard, there’s only six of them. They’re _dwarves_. We’re an entire village. What do we even have to be afraid of?”

“ _Red_ —” 

 

“It’s not just the guard, Miss Red,” the man answers, and there is something altogether hollow, strained about the way the words come out, like a spectre has him by the throat. “Today, the Queen accompanies them.”

In the warmth of Granny’s cottage, Regina’s blood seizes up into ice.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, _fuck_ , what the fuck is she going to do, it was going to be hard enough to try and gather her things and slip out undetected by the rest of the village but she has no idea how much time she has before the guard arrives and Snow, _Snow_ is mere minutes away, Regina can feel the phantom of her fingers sinking into her chest and gripping fiercely at her heart before Robin had intervened and — 

“Regina,” Granny prompts gently, shaking her shoulder a little roughly. Regina inhales sharply, blinks rapidly to try and focus but it’s damn near impossible at this point, not now, not when she knows that Snow is — “Regina,” Granny says again, a touch sharper this time. “Come on, girl, you’ve fought to survive this long, don’t quit on yourself now.”

“I’m sorry,” Regina breathes. “Granny, I’m sorry, I—” 

“Don’t apologize, _get up_ ,” Granny instructs firmly, tugging her by the arm to her feet. “Boots. Cloak. Take your things from the wardrobe, pack the rest of your bag.”

Regina shouldn’t be surprised, really — she remembers just how scared the young mother had been, just before the blizzard — but she can’t deny that the abrupt dismissal feels a bit like being cut off at the knees ( _like being thrown out into the cold like a dog_ , the back of her mind supplies, but Regina forces bitterness into submission). She tries, fails to fight against the sudden stinging at her eyes, hands hanging limply about Robin’s scarf, and swallows _hard_ against the hurt. “Okay,” she agrees, a half-whisper, and she finds that she can’t quite look Granny in the eye, now. “I just need a few minutes, if you’ll let me get my b—” 

“Red,” Granny calls, prompting Regina to dig her teeth into her lower lip. “Her bow and quiver — still out there, with mine?”

“Yes,” Red answers, voice growing closer. “Why—” 

“Move them,” Granny says, and in her peripheral vision Regina sees Red round the corner into the room. “Make it look like it belongs. If anyone asks, it’s yours.” And that’s… oh.

_Oh_.

“You’re not… making me leave,” Regina realizes, breath coming a little more easily as she lifts her gaze. “You’re—” 

“Of course not,” Granny snaps, snatching Regina’s boots out from under the chair and pressing them into her hands. “Like I said, we have to keep you out of sight. It can’t look like anyone else has been here.”

Belatedly, Regina nods, fumbling with the boots for a second before sinking down onto the chair to tug them on. Granny’s quicker than Regina thinks most would give her credit for: she tosses Red Regina’s bag, her clothes from the closet to pack. By the time Regina’s finished lacing up her boots Granny is standing with her cloak open, ready and waiting, and even though the damn thing is still threadbare, at best (she really needs to replace this fucking thing, she should ask Granny about it, if they survive this), Regina instantly feels warmer with it draped about her person.

She’s pretty sure there’s next to nothing she could do, she thinks, as Granny fastens the cloak for her, to express just how _grateful_ she is for the lengths this woman and her family have gone to just to keep Regina alive.

(To honor the sacrifice made all those years ago, when given a choice, and Regina will always owe a debt she can never repay.)

“Thank you, Red,” Granny huffs, already moving toward the back door. Red passes off Regina’s packed bag with trepidation in her eyes (and a fire that does not escape Regina’s notice, and does not belong to the wolf inside). There’s so _much_ she should say here — so much Red needs to hear, with this particular predator inbound ( _don’t bark, don’t bite, don’t even fucking glance at her the wrong way oh god, oh god ohgodohgod_ ), but Regina’s heart lodges in her throat and beats triple time, and in the end nothing comes out.

When she turns to follow Granny out the back, Regina swears she hears the words _please, come back_ fall whisper-soft, from Red’s lips.

Outside the air is sharp, stinging, but the reprieve that the North Kingdom has been granted in the last week from all the snow has definitely taken the edge off. It’s not quite as unbearable as it had been, before, snow melted enough to be shoveled and paths to be carved. It’s oddly comforting, as they trek through frosted dirt, to see the shifting landscape. The snow’s not so deep anymore, and if she can just _get out_ — undetected, with time to spare before the next storm hits — then she stands a good chance, she thinks, of covering enough ground before she needs to find somewhere else to take shelter.

It occurs to her, then, that making a clean getaway might be harder than she thinks — even without Snow’s looming presence.

_Please, come back_ is like an infinite echo on her ears, and the yearning in her belly to plant, sink down roots into the ground grows harder to resist every day.

She doesn’t realize where Granny’s taking her until they’re practically on top of the building, and Regina knows she fails at hiding the pained disappointment on her face when Granny pulls open one of the barn’s great double doors. “They’ll search here, too.”

“I know,” Granny says, holding the door open for her. “Get inside, we can’t afford to waste any more time.”

Regina obeys with only half a beat’s hesitation, but her eyes narrow as Granny ducks inside and brushes past her. “I don’t understand—” 

“The thing about having secrets,” Granny says, moving past the stacked hay bales to the small, inset wooden nook, “is that you need a place to keep them. Sometimes,” she grunts, lifting a small, heavy-looking crate and waving Regina off when she steps forward to help, “those secrets are people. When Red first started to shift — and her father, before her — I brought her down here. To keep the townsfolk none the wiser, yes, but mostly to keep her safe — at least until she learned how better to control it.”

There’s so _much_ there for Regina to uncover, so much they don’t have time for, might not ever have another opportunity to discover, but all she can manage, standing, shivering now that she’s lost the last of the warmth from the cottage, is a dreadful fixation on one word. “Down?”

Granny moves a clutch of boots off to the side, folds back a saddle blanket draped across the floor, and there, tucked inconspicuously beneath the small desk protruding out of the wall, is a small, rusted latch.

Mouth dry, Regina slowly lifts her eyes, and feels very, very small. “Granny?”

“Had more, last year, when she was still having trouble — chains and the like — but I figure this should be fine, once I put everything back in its place.”

Regina chews her lower lip between her teeth and inches her way forward, peering cautiously down into the makeshift cellar as Granny lifts the hidden wooden hatch. “Is it safe? Can — will I be able to breathe?”

“You’ll be just fine,” Granny assures her, beckoning her forward with a wave of her hand. “Red’s spent whole nights in here. I promise we won’t leave you in here for more than an hour, unless they linger.” Still, Regina hesitates, unable to shake the uncomfortable feeling of shadows closing around her skin. Her choices are to risk running (reckless, and highly unlikely that she'd succeed, given the way sickness still lingers, heavy and itching somewhere in the middle of her lungs), to face her enemy (stupid, and potentially suicidal, and she does not, _does not_ want to die), or to willingly agree to being essentially trapped, in a cellar, and entirely at someone else’s mercy.

She has trusted them this far; one more hour, and it could be just shy of enough.

(She has no other choice.)

“You’ll come back for me?” Regina asks, half-pleading as she takes another step toward the opening. She breathes a little easier at the sight of actual stairs, however narrow, or steep, or uneven they might be.

“We’ll come back for you,” Granny promises, holding out a hand in offering. She waits, a beat, several more before impatience flickers on her face (brief, barely there, but Fear sees what Regina does not), and Regina’s slipping her hand into Granny’s on impulse, skin on skin. “Get inside,” she murmurs, half-glancing over at the barn door. “Stay out of sight — you might be able to see, through the spaces between the boards — but remember, if you can see them, they can see you, too.”

She takes Regina’s bag from her while Regina navigates the stairs, slow, precarious, and doesn’t speak again until Regina’s safely back on solid ground. “Don’t make a sound,” Granny urges, voice dropping down low. “And whatever you do, do not — _do not_ try to force your way out, or come out of the shadows until either Red or I come to get you, do you understand me?”

Regina bites her lip, nods as she takes her bag back from Granny, fingertips brushing, lingering against Granny’s and hovering in the air a little too long after Granny pulls away. “Into the shadows, girl,” Granny whispers, and there is something frighteningly _tender_ , in Granny’s expression, as she locks eyes with Regina one last time. “Not a word.”

Carefully, quietly, Granny finally pulls the hatch back down, leaving Regina in darkness, patched with small slivers of light. For a few moments, there’s the shuffling of bustle above her — Granny returning everything back to its original spot, to keep the hatch hidden from prying eyes. The tell-tale _thump_ of boot against ground, shaking Regina’s ceiling and prompting her to retreat farther into the cellar; the heavy drag, clatter-shut of what she thinks must be the barn door; the soft crunch of snow underfoot, growing distant with each passing second; and then, silence.

Once again, Regina is alone.

Instinctively, she drops her bag into the corner and wraps an arm around her middle. Her hands are _freezing_ , well on their way to numb, and it's with a flare of frustration that she realizes she'd left her gloves somewhere inside the cottage. The soft warmth of Robin’s scarf is the closest she's going to get to protection from the bitter cold, so Regina reaches up to adjust the scarf around her neck, pulls it up over her mouth and wraps the ends around her hands.

In the dark, her eyes slip shut, and all she can think is _please, come back_.

She wonders, briefly, if any of the Merry Men wished the same, after she left.

(If Robin shared the sentiment, or felt any remorse about the way he'd hurt her, that day.)

She loses track of time, after a while, sinks down on top of her bag and leans against the cellar wall for comfort. Cold nips at her nose, her ears, has her shivering intermittently while she has nothing to do but wait. Eventually, she hears voices, distant and discordant, and even though they're not near enough for the threat of being discovered to be imminent her fingers flex, fidget in the scarf at the sounds.

She wishes Granny had let her bring her bow, wishes she was less scared, and more able to fight.

(She wishes Robin hadn’t been right, and wishing does not feel quite so childish, anymore.)

Several minutes pass — she really has no idea how long she’s been down here, the light hasn’t changed much, filtering through the floorboards overhead — but the voices don’t grow any nearer. Still the same dulcet tones and barked orders, the occasional clatter of something being thrown. Not once does she detect voices strained, screaming with argument, no protests or pleads or cries to be spared. It’s almost like it’s… routine, really, and Regina wonders just how frequently the guard is conducting raids, at Snow’s instruction.

How the people have adapted to the constant invasion of their privacy, and still quake, and cower with fear at the mere mention of Snow’s name.

Not her name — her _title_.

(Each of them bears a title they did not choose, and for every action that is their own, the people are the ones telling their story.)

She almost misses the gentle rustling above, has to push herself away from the wall slightly and strain hard to try and make out what it is, where it’s coming from. Not footsteps, not heavy enough for that, but there’s a steady rhythm to it, almost, not like the frantic, sporadic scurrying of a small animal. Whatever it is, it’s inside the barn, she thinks — not in the nook, but close by enough for her to hear. From the shadows Regina listens carefully, each repetitive _schwip-schwip-schwip_ like the tick of a clock in her mind, wheel turning as she struggles to discern the source. Back, and forth, from one side of the barn to the other, she follows the sound with her ears, notes the way it grows distant, comes back, louder, and circles around again. It’s almost as if someone is… pacing, and the very second the thought enters her mind the sound abruptly ceases.

“Your Majesty.”

_No_.

No, _no_ , Regina’s heart trips, stutters and stumbles over the breath that catches in her chest. Her mind is racing as she leans back into the shadows, careful not to make a sound. This doesn’t make _sense_. Even when Snow emerges from the palace to make a public appearance, she’s almost always taken a more hands-off approach to things — makes the others, the dwarves, the guard, her soldiers do the dirty work while she sits back, and pulls the strings. It’s unusual for her to actually venture into the village properly like this, rarer still to search a building unaccompanied, if that’s what she’s been doing the last several moments.

It becomes clear almost instantly that is not the case. “Well? Speak.”

“They’ve — we’ve searched the village, and the town. Every house and shop, the barns, the stables.” That’s… David, Regina realizes after a long pause, every word tinged with the faintest edge of reluctance, even if he does seem as hellbent on ripping her heart out as Snow does.

“And?”

“And… there’s no sign of her,” David admits, and there is something altogether careful in his voice — not like he’s trying to avoid provoking her, but...navigating, testing the waters. “Nothing seems out of place or disturbed. No one has been entertaining guests. All of the villagers swear they haven’t seen her.”

“Well that’s just not true now, is it?” Snow says, sickly-sweet, and Regina feels her blood run _cold_. “I followed the instructions exactly. This is where she’s supposed to be, which means _they_ are lying, and _you_ ,” she adds, voice pitching breathy, low, downright dangerous, “are failing at the one thing you’re good at.”

There’s a long beat of silence before David replies, and the irritation is obvious in his voice when he does. “Even if they are lying, even if she’s been here and they’ve seen her, she’s clearly moved on. I doubt she would’ve let on to any of them where she was going — ow, hey, what the _fuck_ , Snow?!”

“ _Next time_ , I’ll break it,” Snow snaps icily, and Regina hears David let out a small sigh of relief. “I’m in no mood for your impertinence today, Charming.”

“Are you ever?” David mutters, so low Regina almost doesn’t hear him, and it’s a very near thing that she doesn’t inhale sharply in surprise. He’s so… different, than the last time she saw him, tongue looser, skin thicker, a little rougher, harder around the edges. James had always been the one to go toe-to-toe with Snow, before he died ( _because of you_ , the Snow in the back of her mind tacks on, and that too, has become routine, like the echo of a haunting lullaby). David was never the same: he kept to himself, always seemed disinterested in whatever hot water James had gotten himself into, and since his death has been resentful — cold, in a way James never was.

Quite literally hollow, from the inside out.

(And her heart, her heart, her _heart_ is scattered across Sherwood in pieces.)

Snow’s resumed her pacing, from the sound of things, the gentle _swish_ ing identifiable now as the drag of her hem along the barn floor, scratching, catching against hay, straw. “I followed the old bat’s instructions to the letter,” she says, and she sounds distracted, almost like she’s talking to herself, instead of David. “There’s no reason why it shouldn’t work. She should _be here_.”

Regina swallows hard and shrinks back against the wall, anchoring a hand over her middle.

(She does not, _does not_ want to die.)

“Probably a question for the witch, then,” David muses, and _there_ he is, indifferent to the last in the face of Snow’s impending rage. “You want me to send the guard out for another sweep?”

_Swish, swish, swish_ , the echo of Regina’s beating heart, and then, “Yes, but tell them not to destroy anything. I want to leave this place as… _nice_ as I left it.”

“What, no interrogations?” David throws back and he’s _James_ , _why is he acting like James_. “No, uh, demonstrations?”

“Let them do a second sweep,” Snow says. “If they really do turn up nothing, there’s no reason to linger. The villagers wouldn’t talk even with my presence. They’re of little use to me.”

David _ah_ s knowingly, like she’s given him answers to questions he’s yet to ask. Like he knows _exactly_ what lies beneath all of her practical prose, and while Regina can’t know for certain she can sure as hell guess what Snow has planned.

No matter how hard she tries, Regina still destroys everything she touches.

(Her palm caresses, cups the still-gentle curve of her belly, and underneath Snow’s heel Regina closes her eyes, and tries to remember exactly what it is she’s fighting _for_.

This has never, _never_ been just about her.)

“You know,” David ventures, re-entering the barn after a few moments of quiet and _swish, swish, swish_ , “you’re usually in better spirits after Prince John’s visited. I wasn’t expecting _more_ raids, after you’d ordered the guard to conduct them more frequently, last time.”

The resulting silence has Regina squirming uncomfortably atop her bag while she awaits Snow’s reply, her fingers smoothing down along Robin’s scarf, across her belly in a slip-slide effort to seek, find, grant comfort. The air feels thinner, the longer she’s down here, vision growing fuzzy around the edges against the slivers of light. She can breathe, certainly, but it’s musty in the makeshift cellar, dust and dirt mingling in the air. The only reason she’s managed to keep quiet this long is because of Robin’s scarf, wrapped over her neck, nose, but her breath is starting to grow hot, damp against the material, and there’s an itching in her lungs that’s every bit a threat as the woman pacing ten feet above her.

“You know,” Snow drawls, sounding almost _amused_ at David’s frank attempt to get her to be honest, for a change, “I really ought to cut that tongue of yours out.”

“You’d’ve done it by now,” he dismisses, and gods, Regina really has no idea what’s happened in the last couple of years to make him so fucking _bold_ as brass with Snow.

“Yes, well,” Snow sighs, voice pitching high, first, and then lower, “you do occasionally put it to good use.”

If David has any thoughts on that, he keeps them to himself. “What did he do?” he asks instead. “Prince John. By the time his traveling party left last week you seemed glad to be rid of him.”

Snow hesitates for a beat or two, and the answer she provides _is_ startlingly honest, all things considered. “You’d think it petty.”

“No more than I do of any of your other little temper tantrums,” David says, simple, calm, like he’s fucking _reasoning_ with her and where did he get the fucking nerve, honestly.

There’s a distinct _thud_ , one that has a gasp hitching in Regina’s chest, but it’s lost against the way the whole barn _rattles_ with the force of it. Regina swallows the sound down, closes her eyes and tries to piece together what’s happening. Another _thud_ , this one dull, not as violent, and without spotty vision her ears zero in on the source, somewhere off to the far right — probably close to the barn door, she thinks, maybe Snow’s thrown him against the wall.

A sharp inhale, the softest of smacks, and Regina’s mind goes to violence, first, before Snow is… humming, almost like she’s _pleased_. “I don’t generally give multiple warnings,” she murmurs and oh, _oh_ , that’s… heat, fuck, shit, _gods_ Regina does not want to hear this. “Consider this your last.”

By the sound of his voice, David is thoroughly unrattled by her assault. “Prince John?” he prompts, ignoring her threat entirely.

A beat, and the _swish-swish-swish_ resumes. “He’s decent company,” she sniffs, and Regina’s eyes flick open solely so she can roll them to quell her own irritation and ire at the notion. _Prince John, decent_ , she thinks bitterly, _yeah, fucking right_. “Oh he’s a little pathetic, certainly — he never did quite figure out how to step out from Richard’s shadow — and he’s rubbish at actually _running_ the damn kingdom, quite frankly, but he’s… tolerable,” Snow says, an admission that still manages to sound indifferent. “He’s the only monarch in these parts who doesn’t court, or simper, or aim to discuss politics. It’s refreshing, is all.”

“So what did he do that prompted such an admission of pettiness from you?”

“I didn’t say it was petty,” Snow says thinly, and there’s not anger in her voice, not yet, but Regina knows, she can tell — David is playing with fire. “I said _you_ would think it petty. After all, it’s not as if he did anything all that out of the ordinary. Talked about his latest accomplishments _incessantly, gods_ , that man’s bravado knows no bounds. Would _not_ shut up about the sheriff,” — here Regina’s ire dissipates quickly, has anxiety coiling tight in her belly — “kept going on and on about how much he’s improved things in that insipid little forest town he’s in charge of,” — and Sherwood is a ghost around Regina’s soul, vibrating around hollow where heart should be — “but really, Charming, the man was just fucking _gloating_ , alright, because he can never resist flaunting his claims to glory when he _knows_ he has what you want—” 

“Gloating?” David echoes, voice growing closer to the nook. “About what?”

Regina lifts her face against the light (ignores the warning in the back of her head, yelling, screaming to no avail) and for the first time in well over two years she sets eyes upon Snow, and all of the Fury she has become.

This time when Snow speaks, Regina’s entire world tilts, spins and fissures, threatening to fall out, from under her feet.

“Why, about Nottingham, of course,” Snow says, falsely bright, “and what happened to Robin Hood.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You’re rushing into this,” John hisses into his ear, uncomfortably close.

“We have a plan,” Robin murmurs, not bothering to look over his shoulder. He strains to hear the tell-tale sound of boot against stone, tries to drown John out in order to keep count of the steps.

“You have _half_ a plan, at best,” John counters dryly. “It’s that sort of thinking that got you into this mess in the first place. We should’ve taken more time and—”

“And what?” Robin snaps darkly, huffing in annoyance as he finally leans back against the wall to glance sidelong in John’s direction. “Left him to die?”

“And I keep telling you,” John says, low and over-earnest against the sudden clatter that echoes its way down the hall, “Nottingham is thick but he is not _stupid_ , Robin. You’re underestimating him.”

“All I’m doing,” Robin mutters, leaning in a little closer, “is looking after one of our own. Will is one of us, John. What would you have me do, leave him for the noose?”

“Of course not,” John sighs, sounding beyond exasperated now. He runs a hand through his too-long locks, fingers forming a fist about halfway through before halting. “You are… such a hypocrite, you know that? The way you cherry-pick when or how to stand up for the lot of us makes no sense after the way you treated her.”

Another clatter, this one more resonant, and even without correct count Robin knows their window of opportunity is drawing more near by the second, which means they really, really can’t afford any more distractions if they’re going to pull this off without a hitch. “Is now really the time?” he asks, unable to help the obvious strain in his voice at the mention of her.

“ _Yes_ ,” John says thinly, a touch too loud. Robin elbows him, gaze darting over to the hallway just round the corner, but it only works by half: John is quieter, but refuses to be silenced. “I’m not stupid either, you know. The entire reason he’s in there is because you did a shit job in the first place, and that happened because you’ve been doing nothing but _brooding_ over being the reason she’s gone in the first place. You’re rushing into this to square what he did for you because you don’t like being indebted to anyone, and because you _can_ with him and not—”

“So what if it is?” Robin grits out roughly, forcing himself to meet John’s eyes at last. “So what if that’s why we’re—”

“Why _you_ are the one—”

“What the fuck does it _matter_?” Robin breathes, far too earnest for his own good and no, shit, he promised himself, he _swore_ he wasn’t going to do this, wasn’t going to think about her until after they’d gotten Will out, fuck, fuck, shit. “We’re here for Will, John, because he’s fucking family, and so was Regina, and I went and cocked that up good and proper. She’s been gone how long now and I’ve yet to find a way to make amends for that? But this— this I _can_ fix. So will you please, _please_ just shut it and keep an eye out while I try to make use of what little time we have between the changing of the guards? I really don’t fancy another skirmish like the one we had last week, do you?”

“Then we should’ve taken another day or two to plan better,” John implores, and fucking hell, he’s impossible when he gets this irritatingly righteous, and people think _Robin_ stands on too high a moral ground. “There’s no precedent for this. Nottingham’s never managed to hold any one of us this long. The last time he even came close was what, five years ago? This isn’t a _game_ anymore, Robin. He’s out for blood.”

“And it’s my job to make sure it’s not Will’s.”

(He’s still sporting a bruise from when he’d landed too-hard on impact, after Will had all but thrown him out the window last week.)

If John had any sort of reply — protest, beratement, agreement or otherwise — Robin will never know it.

“ _Duck!_ ”

Robin obeys the command on instinct, drops down and bows his head to keep it out of harm’s way and is treated to a view of John’s boots as he shuffles, takes a step back, three forward and then there’s nothing but the dull _crunch-thump_ of collision above him. It’s the idle brushing against his back that has Robin startling in place, elbow at the ready as he whips around slightly to defend himself against… an unconscious guard.

A bleeding, rapidly bruising, somewhat drooling unconscious guard (and a few bloody, broken teeth, scattered next to him), and when Robin glances back up he finds John holding a frying pan, where in the _world_ did he get one of those?

“You know,” John muses idly, surveying the pan approvingly, “if these things weren’t so damn heavy, I might consider carrying one as a backup, in case something happens to the bow.”

“Probably for the best you don’t, then,” Robin says, groaning a bit as he pushes himself back to full standing. “I’m pretty sure you broke the poor man’s jaw, not to mention his nose.”

“One of you was going to end up unconscious,” John reasons. “Be glad it wasn’t you.”

At long last Robin peers around the corner into the long corridor leading down to the heart of the jail. No more guards, at least, but they hadn’t been expecting that one — he’d varied from routine, or had it changed for him — and it stands to reason that more will pop up where they’re not supposed to be. He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though: a series of startled shouts (a scream? He could’ve sworn he heard a scream) shatters the silence quite suddenly, voices overlapping as they echo, reverberate off of the corridor walls until they’re nothing but noise, discordant and grating against his ears. “I suppose that’s my cue, then,” he sighs, and it’s his turn to run his fingers through his hair (and he is tired, so, so goddamn fucking tired).

“ _Don’t_ ,” John insists—pleads, really, tucks the pan beneath his arm and closes the distance between them. It’s a near thing, Robin thinks, a very, very fucking near thing that John doesn’t reach for his arm. “We have no idea how much of the rest of our intel is wrong here. Signal a retreat, let us get out of here with _our_ necks so we can regroup and figure out—”

“We won’t get another shot at this,” Robin says, firm and sharp, and he’s the one, in the end, who reaches for John instead. “If we leave now, there’s no telling what Nottingham will do to keep Will from us.”

For a few seconds John simply stares at him, mouth falling open slightly. “I have literally been telling you the exact same thing for the last two days.”

“Yes, well,” Robin huffs, fingers flexing, fidgeting at the point of contact, but he will not let go, not yet. “Consider this me taking your advice.”

“This isn’t about you taking my advice, you idiot, this is—”

“We don’t have time for this,” Robin dismisses, briefly glancing over his shoulder at the sound of voices strained, shouting in potential distress. “Head back to the rendezvous point, help the others if they need it, and then get the hell out of here.”

“I’m not just going to _leave you_ here,” John says, sounding almost scathing.

“And I’m not letting the rest of you fall blindly into a snake pit,” Robin counters, squeezing firmly at John’s forearms once before releasing him. “I’ll meet you back at camp once I’ve got Will.” He steps back a few paces and cranes his neck to try and get a better glimpse of what might be around the next corner. “There’s no use in you being a lookout now. They already know we’re here.”

“But—”

“ _Go_!”

With one last parting glance John’s way (there’s fear, in his eyes, masking most of the frustration, and more too, that Robin does not want to give name), Robin takes off down the long corridor, hand hovering over the handle of his dagger tucked in his belt. John has the good sense not to follow him, thankfully, and Robin breathes a little easier once he’s made it all the way to the other end, rounded the corner to the next, and found no one blocking his path.

He’s alone still, at the next bend, but the path diverges up ahead. He swears at the sight of it, a low, hissing thing that slithers out of him when he realizes he’d forgotten to grab the map off of John, before he left. It’d been rudimentary at best, a blueprint of half proportions that would only help him part of the way (assuming it was accurate to begin with), but it was better than nothing, which is all Robin currently has. Nothing but his bow, and quiver, and a small blade, in the face of a maze that’s convoluted enough to leave even the guards dizzy.

He wonders idly as he makes his way from one corridor to the next if Will had traveled this same path, or even one similar to it— and if Will had likened it to those he’d sprinted through in Wonderland, guards nipping at his heels (still no one, still only echoes of voices, growing more distant with every turn). A right turn, another, left, right, three lefts and that’s about as far as his vague memory of the map will take him before he finds himself in uncharted territory.

(There’s warning there, in the pit of his belly, in the face of the unfamiliar, and where the John in the back of his head continues to whisper _Nottingham_ , Robin can only guess at why Will had been brought here, and not to their regular— smaller jail.)

In the end Robin finds his way by light. Each fork in his path presents a variation of the same juxtaposition: the deceptive fade into a blue-black abyss that threatens to swallow whole all who fall into it, smattered with a twinkling of yellow-white from cloud-covered moonlight; or, the mesmerizing, enticing glow of orange, and yellow, and fire, steady and warm and entirely deceptive in its own right. It’s here, in the latter, that Robin finds his footsteps following, instinct catching up to reason as he puts the pieces together.

This prison, he thinks, is not all that unlike a palace: its treasures are most likely hidden, tucked safe at the very heart.

And, well. Even if he is a bit thick, Nottingham isn’t going to make it _easy_ for him.

Around a right turn, then a left and— “Fuck!” he shouts, half-stumbling sideways as he just narrowly avoids colliding face first with another one of the guards. He hadn’t even _heard_ this one coming, where the fuck are they— 

The guard’s not quite as quick to react, with all the cumbersome armor Nottingham’s bestowed upon them, takes too long in whirling around when Robin ducks behind him. Quickly he circles round, arches up on the balls of his feet and flings an arm carelessly around the guard’s neck in a clumsy pull-squeeze-tighten. The guard’s hands are against Robin’s arm in an instant, clutching, hitting, _clawing_ at the leather on his hands, arms in an attempt to pry him off. Still, Robin doesn’t let up, keeps his hold tight, firm as the guard coughs, sputters, strains for air and he’s damn near desperate now, feet kicking half-wild like a bucking horse but to no avail.

Robin has earned his title: agility of a prince; speed of an arrow, in the air; slickness of a magician’s fingers; and silence of a rabbit, light of foot.

(He’s always been quick, the one to arrive first, but it had been Regina, always, with the better plan— and a greater likelihood of escaping in one piece.)

The struggle lasts only a moment, at most, and Robin’s rare practice of patience pays off in the end. The guard’s feet aren’t flailing quite so much, falling to a mere shuffling against the stone floor; each punch, scratch at Robin’s gloves grows weaker in tandem with each sucking, wheezing gasp until finally all movement ceases, and every last ounce of the guard’s weight is suddenly Robin’s to uphold.

He doesn’t, of course, not really, only manages to keep the guard upright long enough to make sure his head doesn’t smack against the stone floor when he falls. Robin glances down one end of the corridor, then the other, strains again to discern sound nearby, but once again he’s met with silence. No one has heard them, it seems—or, if they have, no one seems to be rushing to offer aid. And in the wake of the tension that unspools in him there is nothing left but a hollow hunger—an _ache_ , that he cannot (does not want to) define, in the absence of his men.

(Of his _family_ , and the ache bears the name of Regina Mills.)

Sucking in a breath, Robin forces himself to push her from his mind, just for a while longer, and kneels down next to unconscious guard number two. He’s careful to keep his distance for a good long minute, eyes sweeping over the guard’s form, searching for the slightest of twitches that might indicate some sort of guise. The guard doesn’t move, though, doesn’t even so much as spasm in suffocated sleep, and Robin feels safe in inching closer. He uses his teeth to tug loose a finger on his glove, pulls until he can withdraw his hand and reach out. He halts, hovers, hesitates in going farther before making contact, chewing at his lip while he considers the consequences and— 

—and consequences be damned, quite frankly, because the time it would take to properly consider them is non-existent at this point. Robin can afford consequences but Will cannot afford time, and of the two Robin is more willing to pay the price. It’s difficult to really slip in a couple of fingers beneath the guard’s collar—this armor is fucking ridiculous, honestly, and probably a product of Prince John’s gluttonous and cruel tax hikes—but Robin manages enough to press his fingertips against the guard’s pulsepoint. He’s rewarded with a relatively steady thrum beneath his fingers, pumping breath into the guard’s lungs and color back into his face. Gingerly, Robin moves his hand up, grazing along the guard’s temple, but it’s all smooth beneath his touch: no knobby bumps or tender bruises, no cuts or scrapes or blood.

Satisfied, Robin withdraws his hand, tugs his glove back on and makes to push himself to his feet when he catches a faint glint out of the corner of his eye. He follows it without thinking until his gaze lands, settles on the source, and he cannot help the grin that cracks across his face.

Nottingham may not be entirely stupid, but the guards certainly don’t have the presence of mind to take precautions.

Really, it’s as good as if they’d just opened the front door, handed him the keys, and had a welcome party waiting for him upon arrival.

A chuckle escapes him, low and derisive as he works the ring of keys free of the guard’s belt (and John’s voice is a distant, echoing scream in the back of his mind, _too easy, too easy, get out, get—_ that Robin pays no heed). It won’t be long now that he’s an easier way to get Will out (he’s the delicate hand of a silversmith, too, when put to task picking a lock), and Robin finds himself breathing easier with each step. This doesn’t have to be difficult, or terribly treacherous, and the worst of his worries, he thinks, lie in front of them on their way out, once the bars have been opened.

A duo of right turns, then left, a corridor that slopes down and around to a door that’s open ( _should be locked_ , John whispers in the crevices of his mind, and still Robin won’t give it credence; he’s not about to question a stroke of luck when he needs it most). A stretch of stone longer than the ones before it, a right turn into a set of ascending stairs, beyond a door closed (and _still not locked_ ), and one last left turn before all of Robin’s wayward wandering finally pays off.

At long last the cage’s heart opens up before him, and the treasure he seeks resides in the cell second from the far left. Robin exhales heavily, tension melting from his muscles, and his voice is light as he makes his way forward once more. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

Will’s head snaps up at the sound of his voice, and the look of sheer shock on his face is worth any cost Robin will have to pay for this. “The fuck are you doing here?” Will breathes, shifting on the small cot to swing his legs over the side.

“Oh, we fancied ourselves a bit of a trip,” Robin quips dryly, quirking an eyebrow at him as he closes the gap between them. “Figured we’d take a tour of the new doghouse that Prince John taxed the life out of the people to build for his little lapdog.”

Will’s eyes narrow a bit, fingers curling around the edge of the cot almost like he’s a bit… ticked off, that Robin broke in, to break him out. Any anger he might be harboring, though, stays simmering beneath the surface, and Will matches Robin with ease. “What’s that make me then, I wonder?” he mutters, leveling a knowing look Robin’s way. “A mutt?”

At that, Robin actually laughs. “Something like that,” he muses, leaning in to examine the lock on Will’s cell. “Though it calls into question Nottingham’s taste if this is the sort of collection he aims to amass. We’re hardly well-groomed, and definitely not obedient.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Robin sees Will’s lips twitch into an almost smile. “We?”

Robin pauses in his study of the lock, gaze drifting briefly to where Will still sits, and the warmth in his chest is enough of a balm against the sting of whatever cost is to come. “Wild dogs, the pack of us.”

His gaze lingers long enough to see Will shake his head, looking almost… bemused, but there's something almost frightfully honest in his voice when Robin turns his attention to the ring of keys in his hand. “You know you shouldn't have come.”

Robin exhales sharply, unable to help sounding exasperated as he thumbs through the keys to find the right one. “D’you and John have some sort of thing going,” he mutters, trying a key that's close but not quite right, “where you just… I dunno, wait until I'm already in the thick of something before you tell me it's a bad idea?”

“What, as if that's the first time we say it?” Will drawls, pushing himself to his feet as Robin tries a couple more keys. “You and I both know we’re trying to get it into that thick head of yours before you even start.”

“You say that as if you're not the king of bad ideas,” Robin mumbles, sorting through the last handful of keys ( _what if the key’s not here, what if you have to pick the lock, what if one of the guards shows up before you can finish, why didn't you fucking take the extra day or two to—_ ).

“Oh c’mon, mate,” Will says, his voice decidedly lighter (he can sense, see Robin's anxiety start to twist into panic, Robin knows he can, knows Will is far more perceptive than people would ever give him credit for). “I may have my fair share of stupid ideas, but yours are downright idiotic. I've no delusions of stealing that crown from you, trust me.”

It's the last key that does it, of course, of fucking course it is, and though the corridors are quiet still Robin can't help the slight twinge of paranoia that churns his stomach, when he thinks about the time they've lost.

(She is lost, to him, and he is lost, without her.)

Gloved hand gripping one of the bars, Robin pulls the door of the cell open (tries not cringe at the deafening squeak echoing in the empty space) and levels Will with a look. “A simple _thank you_ would suffice.”

“Why would I do that?” Will snorts, still trying to play it off a bit, but Robin sees the way Will’s shoulders relax once he’s out of the cell. “That’d imply I approve of said idiotic ideas, and I’m not about to go encouraging more. You forget: I’ve seen what real madness looks like, mate,” he says, lips twisting into an odd sort of half-smile as Robin closes the cell door behind him. “Trust me when I say you don’t want to go down that rabbit hole.”

“‘s like a fucking maze, this place, isn’t it?” Robin mutters, pocketing the keys carefully in case they might be of use later. “It’s lucky I didn’t make a wrong turn somewhere.”

“Think Nottingham might’ve been counting on that,” Will mutters, following Robin’s lead back down the stairs to the last fork in the path. “D’you come in from the south?” Robin nods. “Think it takes longer to get to these cells from that way. We should try heading out the north, off the sides. I doubt he’d think I’d ever pay that much attention when they brought me in here.”

At that, Robin smiles, warm and soft around the edges as he glances briefly back over his shoulder at Will. “John told me not to underestimate him, you know.”

Will cocks an eyebrow at him before brushing past to peer cautiously around a corner, but Robin takes it for the recognition it’s meant to be. “John’s a damn sight smarter than you and I put together, mate,” he mutters. “Suppose one of us has to be.”

Will makes to round the corner, pauses when there’s a faint shout from… somewhere—Robin can’t quite pinpoint the direction it’s coming from—and it occurs to Robin, then, that while Will is often overlooked and underestimated (and uses that, rather spectacularly, to his advantage), there’s little he’ll be able to do if they stumble across more armed guards. Robin grips Will’s elbow to keep him in place for just a moment longer, reaches for the dagger tucked into his belt and meets Will’s gaze with a crooked smile. “Here,” he offers, pressing the handle of the blade into Will’s hand. “I figured they took any weapons off of you when they caught you.”

For a few long seconds Will only stares at it, clearly deliberating something, but his hand curls around the handle all the same, and he lifts his gaze to where Robin’s bow is tucked around his quiver, on his back. “Not sure shooting those off in such tight spaces is a good idea, mate.”

“Well then get to work, Scarlet,” Robin teases, nodding at the corridor around the corner, “and make sure I won’t have reason to use one.” At that, Will merely rolls his eyes, but he presses onward, creeps his way around the corner before beckoning Robin forward with a wave of his hand. “You know,” Robin murmurs as they sidestep their way down the corridor, backs pressed against the wall, “I find the implication that a confined space such as this would make me a terrible shot to be pretty fucking insulting.”

“Gods,” Will groans, sounding mildly irritated with him. “Your pride knows no bounds, does it?”

“I’m just saying—” 

“I know what you’re saying,” Will dismisses, leading Robin around a left turn this time, instead. “And… you’re good with a bow, I’ll give you that.”

“Just good?”

The look Will throws back at him over his shoulder would be damn near scathing, to anyone else, but Robin can only try to stifle a laugh. “I’ve half a mind to leave you here, y’know.”

“What happened to the other half— _oomph_ , ow, hey, that hurt!” Robin hisses around a slight whine, rubbing idly at the spot Will’s elbow’s collided with his belly.

“Be grateful it was an elbow,” Will mutters, sounding far too pleased with himself. “I still don’t know how Regina didn’t end up punching your sorry ass before she left.”

It shouldn’t stop him dead in his tracks—he’d said her name himself, not a half hour ago, in a rare moment of painful honesty—but _hearing_ her name out loud, echoing through the corridors and bouncing off the walls to rattle at his ears (his mind, his heart, fuck, _fuck_ ) is more than he’s equipped to handle at the moment. All at once there is ice lancing through the very center of his bones, rooting him to the spot, and the ache in his chest breaks open into a festering wound, bleeding, and bleeding, until his heart’s run dry.

No, that’s not right: his heart is not _here_ , and Robin is nothing— _nothing_ more than the hollow shell of someone he’s not sure he’d recognize.

And he wonders, then, if the venom he’d poisoned her with was laced with the doubt she’d instilled in him, that day by the river.

_Why isn’t who you are, enough?_

“Hey,” Will murmurs, hand curling gently around Robin’s forearm. Robin’s breath hitches in his chest at the touch, but he doesn’t look up, won’t, can’t, can hardly see straight for the way ache twists into pain and coils around his neck like a noose. Only when Will’s fingers hook under his chin and tip up does Robin manage to (weakly) meet his eyes, and where there had been ire and a touch of disappointment there before he only finds compassion now.

“Chin up,” Will says, releasing Robin’s chin when Robin chuckles low and wet at the age-old adage. A beat, and then, far, far kinder than Robin probably deserves, “I know you miss her. We all do, but not like— I know you miss her. And once we get back to camp, the whole lot of us can talk about bringing her home, alright? But right now, I need you _here_ ,” Will implores, casting a glance around them. “John might be the brains, but I think we can manage together, yeah? Eagle eye and slick fox, and all that?”

There’s a whisper of something there, curled up tight in the coil around his neck— _you’re all heart, on two feet_ —and even though she’d left her mark everywhere, has fucking branded him as hers without ever meaning to, Robin finds he can breathe a little easier at the reminder of the place she’d had among them.

Among their _family_ , and beyond his own, Robin thinks they lost their heart, as a whole, when she’d left.

The smile he offers Will is weak, at best. “Let’s get a move-on then, shall we?” he murmurs, nodding toward the end of the corridor where he can see the faint vestiges of yellow-white beginning to reappear. “I’d like to be out of this godforsaken place before sunrise.”

Will claps him on the back of the shoulder before turning to take the lead again, and without his heart all Robin can do is follow a path he hopes leads him back to it.

Still, the brief moment of genuine compassion has not replaced or deterred Will’s dry sense of humor, and somewhere between the lines Robin can hear the echo of John, too. They’ve barely rounded the next corner (they’re getting closer to an exit, Robin thinks, he can smell the faintest traces of oak, and frost) before Will says, “I take it that the plan to get me out of here was about as well thought out as the one that got me in here.”

“Marginally better,” Robin mumbles begrudgingly, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to ensure they’re not being followed.

Will snorts. “Regina’d have planned it better, you know. Probably would’ve had an alternative exit strategy too, which, er, we seem to be making up as we go along here, mate.”

Another painful twist in his chest and he knows, he _knows_ Will is trying to distract him from it, trying to keep the thoughts of her on the surface, but _everything_ is like a fucking blade straight through him these days—a bitter reminder of all the ways in which Robin has failed, and wounded, and walked away with blood on his hands. “If she were here,” Robin murmurs, “you wouldn’t have ended up in here in the first place.”

At that, Will stops, just before rounding another corner (to the right, this time, and the yellow-white grows brighter still, bless Will Scarlet and his innate sense of direction), and throws Robin a look over his shoulder. “If I tell that to John, after we meet back up with the others, are you willing to put that in writing for us?”

The twist in his chest eases up a bit, less tight around the edges, and Robin can’t help but roll his eyes. “That’s a pretty roundabout way of saying _I told you so_ , Will.”

“I was _trying_ to have some tact,” Will sighs. “John’d have said it outright.”

“Oh, he already did,” Robin mutters, unable to help sounding a bit… petulant at the reminder, “just before I broke off to find you.”

“Look, I’m just saying,” Will tries, and it’s a credit to his gentler nature that he doesn’t take the opening, “that if you can manage that sort of honesty with Regina when we _do_ eventually find her, you may yet stand a chance of earning her forgiveness.”

And that—that hits just too close to home to dwell on, at least right now, and where there had been no time they could afford to lose before, they’re downright _wasting_ precious minutes now on Robin’s idiocy. “Let’s just… focus on getting ourselves out of here first, yeah?”

“We can’t be far,” Will murmurs, peering carefully around the corner before slinking around it. “Thought I heard an owl, a minute ago. Been pretty quiet otherwise, though—I sort of expected to have run into at least a few of the guards by now.”

“We did _try_ to time it well,” Robin says, eyes shifting when they approach another fork in the path. There’s a closed door, off to the left; a brighter glow of light, off to the right, harboring the echoes of owls and crows alike. Robin nods in the direction of the latter, heart picking up pace in anticipation, and the _nearly there, nearly there, nearly there_ ghosting its way up his throat has him brushing past Will to take the lead in earnest. “Ran into two, before I found you, though to be fair, John took care of the first one.”

“‘m sure that didn’t sit well with him,” Will says, and at Robin’s quizzical expression, adds, “The lack of guards, I mean. Even if you were aiming to catch them between a shift change, when it comes to Nottingham, John’s more paranoid than you and I combined.”

“Probably wouldn’t shut up about it, if I’d let him stay with me,” Robin agrees, fatigue beginning to settle in a bit as he starts to ascend what he hopes is the last set of stairs. “He’d just keep going on and on about how this was all too… easy,” he breathes, coming to a dead stop at the top of the stairs.

Because there, at the end of a long, long corridor standing in front of what is more than likely their easiest way out from here, is Nottingham.

Fucking shit.

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, the little John firmly rooted next to his conscience throws his hands up in exasperated surrender and falls uncharacteristically quiet.)

“Speak of the devil,” Will mutters, sidling up next to Robin carefully.

Even at a distance, Robin can see the way Nottingham’s lips curve into a wicked little smile, and he’s all smugness as he leans against the side of the archway, arms folding over his chest. “You’re losing your touch, Locksley,” he muses, sounding far, _far_ too pleased with himself. “Took you long enough to get here. I was beginning to worry you’d lost your way.”

“How kind of you to wait for us,” Robin throws back, forcing himself not to fidget, “but you really needn’t have bothered. We’ll not be needing a guide to help us find our way out.”

“Ah, see, I’m not here to offer such services,” Nottingham says, and everything about his posture is composed, but his eyes are dark, dangerous as they stay locked, fixated on the pair of them. “I’m here to negotiate.”

“Negotiate,” Will deadpans, dry and every bit as skeptical as he should be.

“With Locksley,” Nottingham adds, a touch sharp, but that’s as far as his simmering rage gets in breaking through the facade. Robin can’t help the way his eyes narrow slightly, smile growing uncomfortably tight around the edges at the address, but he too, takes great care in keeping his temper in check. “We’ve already long since established you’ve nothing of value to offer, Scarlet, beyond mistaking stupidity for noble sacrifice and handing me bait on a silver platter.”

Robin’s fingers flex, form into a fist briefly before unfurling and he cannot help the way he rises to Nottingham’s bait, but how dare he—how _fucking_ dare he think he can get away with belittling someone with more character, and integrity, and fucking _value_ than Nottingham could ever _dream_ of possessing. _Gods_ , Robin hates this fucking bastard.

Will, however, needs no defending. “That’s rich, coming from you,” he muses, and there’s a sharp edge to his voice that’s just as dangerous as Nottingham’s, fucking hell, this is _not_ going to end well, is it? “Y’know, considering we all know you’re relying on Robin to be just as _stupid_ in order to have the upper hand, here.”

That’s… not entirely untrue, Robin realizes, and he takes advantage of Nottingham’s momentary shift in attention to (belatedly) glance casually around at their surroundings. There’s a door slightly ajar, just off to Will’s right, with just enough yellow-white light spilling through the cracks to spark something in Robin’s mind. “Oh good,” Nottingham says, sounding positively _delighted_. “Straight to the point, then. I’m glad to see you boys have outgrown all those senseless games.”

“And I see you haven’t,” Robin cuts in, forcing Nottingham’s attention back on him. “Out with it, then: what is it you want, _Sheriff_?"

It works: Nottingham’s jaw jumps in obvious irritation at the title, but otherwise he does not move. “I’d have thought it obvious,” he says. “A simple swap, is all. You’re to take his place, and in return Scarlet gets to leave.”

“Gods, you must _really_ think us as stupid as you are,” Will mutters derisively. “Even if he _was_ stupid enough to agree to that, I’m not. I expect there’d be, what, an… _escort_ , of sorts, waiting for me?”

“Can’t say,” Nottingham answers with a shrug, and _so much for games_ , Robin thinks. “I can tell you, though, that there won’t be guards around _every_ corner.”

“No, just at every exit,” Will throws back, the edge in his voice growing thin, impatient (and Robin is running out of time to pull this off, he’s going to have to work fast). “It’s like Robin said: we’ll not be needing a guide on our way, Sheriff, but thanks for the offer.”

“Funny,” Nottingham chuckles humorlessly. “You say that as if you have some sort of choice in the matter.”

Will sucks in a breath next to him, clearly readying a retort and Robin knows— he _knows_ what Will is aiming to do here. Keep Nottingham talking, keep him distracted while they take in their surroundings and asses the situation and figure out their best course of action, but they’re not a _they_ , not now. They— _Will_ cannot afford to be part of a _we_ anymore, and Robin makes the decision for them both, speaking up before Will has the chance. “Done.”

Barely a beat passes before Will is hissing, “ _Not_ done.” He leans in a bit, drops his voice low enough that Nottingham won’t be able to make out the words, and mutters, “Remember that thing I said before about not encouraging your idiotic ideas? This is one of those times. Don’t give him the satisfaction of being right, Robin.”

Robin’s smile softens into something just a touch more genuine, at that. It’s… touching, at this particular moment, that Will is endeavoring to goad Robin into some of his worst habits in an effort to _save_ his miserable ass. It won’t work, not this time, but Robin can afford to play the game a bit longer, he thinks, just to earn a small victory here. “I don’t intend to,” he murmurs back, eyes still locked with Nottingham’s.

“Good,” Will huffs, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “So what’s the plan here then, mate? Even with us both armed, I don’t really fancy trying to get past him.”

“On your right,” Robin says, low and under his breath, and still he will not look away, keeps Nottingham’s gaze trained on him while Will puts the pieces together.

“Too easy,” Will says through gritted teeth. “Probably guards stationed somewhere on the other side. He’d have blocked it off, otherwise.”

“It’s that or forward,” Robin reminds him, stomach twisting into knots at the way Nottingham’s eyes flicker with dawning clarity. “Figured you’d rather take your chances with the guards.”

“We could go back,” Will suggests, sounding a bit distracted as he mulls over the options—or, what he thinks are the options, anyway. “Make a break for it and try heading out the northwest, instead. Might give us a chance to lose them in here.”

There’s _knowing_ in Nottingham’s eyes now and fuck, that’s it, they’re out of time to delay action any further, and Robin is out of patience entirely. “Oh, for the love of—” Quickly, Robin reaches out over Will’s head and half-yanks the door open, promptly ignores Will’s exclamation of _the fuck are you d—_ and all but shoves him through the doorway. He’s pushed the door shut before Will’s even had the chance to recover from stumbling through it, and by the time Nottingham’s taken a few steps forward, the crossbar is already in Robin’s hands. He settles it into the brackets with a too-loud _thunk_ and leans against the door in less than half a moment, breathing a little easier when he sees Nottingham halt, halfway down the corridor.

It takes nearly everything in him not to wince at the incessant banging behind him, eyes stinging at the strained desperation in Will’s voice as he tries, futilely, to get Robin to open the door.

He can only send up a silent plea to every god imaginable that Will Scarlet proves _him_ right, instead—that he has far more sense than Robin ever could—and doesn’t try to find a way back to him.

(The beat of Robin’s heart is a steady thunder of _Regina, Regina, Regina_ in his chest, and he carries her with him now, if only to give him the courage to see this through.)

“Well then,” he sighs, once the noise behind him has died down, and it’s his turn to fold his arms over his chest as Nottingham looks him over curiously. “Now that we’re alone, I suppose we really can drop the pretense, can’t we?”

“Not sure you’re capable of it, honestly,” Nottingham counters with ease, but he’s being… exceptionally careful, Robin realizes, with every word and movement as he takes a step forward. “But sure, let’s pretend for a minute that we trust each other enough to put all our cards on the table.”

This time it’s Robin’s lips that curve into a hateful smile, and for the first time in… ever, really, Robin thinks some good might actually come from slipping into his father’s shoes. “You first, Sheriff,” he says, falsely bright, but it earns him that same irritated tic from before, and Robin latches onto the smug little thrill that gives him like _air_. “Tell me, what is it exactly that you have planned for me, hmm? Cut off my hand, for the theft, or my tongue, for the alleged slander?”

“See, in your case slander equates to treason, I’m afraid,” Nottingham says, growing closer, and he’s trying very hard to goad Robin into righteous indignation where Prince John is concerned. But Robin refuses to take the bait: _his_ John proves useful, here, in muttering quietly in the back of his mind, and Robin chooses to finally heed the advice and bite his tongue to save his skin. “We’re well past the point of petty punishment here, Locksley.”

“Ah, it’s to be my neck then,” Robin surmises, deliberately keeping his voice light, damn near _mocking_ if only to satisfy his own itch to get under Nottingham’s skin in retaliation. “The ax or the noose?”

“That implies I have the intention of being kind,” Nottingham drawls, tone dripping with false sincerity, and he’s less than ten paces away now—far, far too close for comfort. “Either would be much too quick an end for you.”

“Torture, really?” Robin says flatly, cocking an eyebrow. “That’s not terribly clever, Sheriff.”

“And you are a _fool_ , Robin of Locksley,” Nottingham says, voice dangerously low as he closes the rest of the distance between them, “if you think this still about outsmarting each other.” It takes considerable control not to suck in a sharp breath when Nottingham leans in closer until he’s only inches away, and Robin knows without sparing a glance that they are each keeping hands within reach of weapons (and he tries, very much, not to regret giving Will his dagger). “I want nothing more than to watch you _suffer_.”

With his heart racing (and gone, it’s gone, he is fucking _heartless_ without her and it serves him right, for the way he’d slithered into his father’s skin like a snake and bit until she bled), Robin does the only thing he can, backed against a wall: he flat-out _grins_ , and throws caution to the wind in provoking Nottingham’s wrath. “I think you and I have very different ideas,” he quips, “of what it means to suffer.”

Eyes growing dark, Nottingham returns the grin with ease, and for the first time the sheer self-assured victory in his voice doesn’t inspire amusement or disdain in Robin, but absolute, genuine fear. “Well then,” Nottingham murmurs, eyes roving over Robin’s face like he can’t wait to pick him apart, “allow me to educate you.”

There’s scarce a second for Robin to _blink_ , much less reach for his bow, or even try to defend himself, because Nottingham is on him before Robin ever has the chance, and it’s not a blade in his hand but cloth, damp against Robin’s face. He reaches up, ready to shove Nottingham away from him but he’s… pinned, he realizes too-late, against the wall and he doesn’t remember Nottingham actually being this strong, when did _that_ happen? Robin inhales sharply, tries to maneuver out from under—to move at _all_ , really, but he can do little but slap fitfully at Nottingham’s hands. Every breath is like drowning while being trapped in ice, his vision blurry and fragmented and he’s spinning while standing still and— and… he’s suffocating, he realizes belatedly, lungs on _fire_ , and for a wild moment he has the thought that this is some sort of retribution for what he did to the guard earlier except cloth, there is cloth, covering his face— 

A potion.

Some manner of fucking awful potion, Robin’s mind pieces together even as it falls apart, the cloth had been fucking doused with it, and the age-old instinct of refusing to dabble with magic is like a wildfire roaring from the bottom up, searing his lungs and trying desperately to punch air out. But he can’t, he _can’t_ , the potion is like fucking smoke covering him but he can’t— he has to— _escape_ the more basal part of his mind supplies, but the last fragments of consciousness are nearly gone, slipping out from under him with every heavy blink of his eyes and shit, _shit_ — 

His knee is jerking up on instinct just before his eyes slip shut all the way, but it’s enough: Nottingham’s ripping away from him with a pained _fuck!_ , stumbling back and away and fuck, yes, the cloth is gone and Robin is _gasping_ for air, clutching fitfully at his throat as if he could somehow get more air by trying to rip it open. That’s stupid, he knows that, the logical part of his mind knows that, but even as breath returns to him and his vision clears enough to notice Nottingham doubled over to the point of nearly kneeling on the ground, Robin can hardly make sense of his surroundings. He’s— everything’s still _spinning_ , his legs wobbling before he’s even attempted a step, and he’s supposed to… something.

Move.

Escape.

_Run_.

Robin stumbles forward, hoping he’s headed in the direction of the open doorway Nottingham had blocked, before, and there we go, reality’s coming back to him, one piece at a time. He nearly falls over with the first two steps, can’t quite get his legs to work the way he needs them to, like there’s some sort of disconnect between his mind and his muscles. It’s nearly, though, but the close-call has him face-to-floor with the cloth Nottingham had dropped and again, fire flares up, chokes him until he feels like he’s going to vomit and fire— _fire_. On half-instinct, Robin reaches for it, careful to keep it away from his face, straightens up and… oh, fuck, dizzy, shit, he’d forgotten he was dizzy in the space of a few seconds, stones around him spinning, and spinning. Half-blind, he throws the cloth in the direction of one of the torches lining the wall, thinks— _hopes_ to every god possible that he hadn’t mistaken the sound of it catching fire, and _runs_.

Tries, anyway, but he thinks he’s heading in the right direction. He has to keep blinking just to keep his feet in focus, and it’s only his hands outstretched that prevent him from running face first into the walls. Everything else doesn’t exist at the moment— _can’t_ exist, in this state, and Robin’s breath comes short, shallow as he stumbles through the archway and turns right down another corridor, following light yellow-white (right? Right, that’s it, that’s the way out).

Whatever the _fuck_ that potion had been has left him feeling trapped in his own body, not quite able to break out of his own skin and he has the stupid, wild wish that he _was_ a snake, if only so he could shed his own skin. Shit, shit, that’s not normal at all, that’s fucking mad, and fear is like ice, around the fire, when he thinks of Will, and Wonderland, and the visions that were not his own. Left— _left_ , he tells his feet, mouth not quite moving even as his legs cross, then sort themselves out in the right (correct? Left. Right. Left? Left.) direction, fucking hell.

John was right, and Nottingham had _told_ him, and forget heartless, Robin thinks: Nottingham has no _soul_.

His vision swims, blurs again as he stumbles, slides his way down a set of stairs, and the lapdog turns puppet, turns prince, turns a heart glowing, in Snow’s hand.

Regina.

If nothing else, Robin has to survive this if only to find her, find her, _find her_ , and he loves her, beyond all measure, and time.

(He does not deserve her, and there’s a part of him, however small, that considers stopping, dead in his tracks, and giving Nottingham that time.)

He can breathe, with time, really, properly breathe, and he’s not sure how long it’s been but he can feel fatigue settling in around the edges. It takes ten times more effort to lift his limbs than before—his whole body just feels _heavy_ —and there’s a stitch developing in his side, a sharp, painful thing that echoes the burn in his chest from running. But he can breathe with each step he takes, the closer he gets to the outside, and the birds are _calling_ to him, like some fucking song of the wild, and only Snow can hear. Snow—snow, Regina had told him, warned him that it was coming, but it’s like the sun against a winter storm to him right now, the biting chill against his skin as wind whips through the corridor, close, close, he’s so fucking close— 

His vision clears just as he rounds the last corner toward the open tunnel that leads out of the prison and into the fringes of town, but it’s not enough to prevent him from colliding bodily with Nottingham, feet tripping over themselves as they both fight to stay upright. Robin fists a hand in Nottingham’s cloak for purchase, awkwardly adjusts his grip to make it easier to push Nottingham away and— 

A scream rips through him as pain ripples rapidly through his entire body, and for a split second Nottingham _owns_ him, breath hot as he whispers against Robin’s ear: _mine._

No.

_No_.

Regina.

The altercation ends abruptly, though Robin hasn’t the foggiest idea how. His vision’s swimming again, dizziness spinning, twisting into something worse, something lighter and he’s floating, flying, hovering above the surface. Logic snaps back into place at the same instant as reality, and all at once he becomes aware of two things: one, he’s left Nottingham out stone cold behind him, though he’s no recollection of how he managed that; and two, he is wounded, badly, and bleeding, and the only thing keeping him upright is an arm wrapped tight around his middle and a hand pressed firmly against flesh gaping.

He’s hardly aware that he’s made it out of the prison until he’s rounding a corner into the quiet town, stone slick beneath his feet and sending him slipping, stumbling. There’s precious little to guide him, only a few lit lanterns along the lane, and he knows where he’s going, he does, he’s been here before, hasn’t he? A lifetime ago, in a body that was not his own, and there are shadows, around the edges of his vision, creeping up from behind, and time is a phantom, stretching along the line. His father is a ghost of his past, heavy upon his back; before him, the future shimmers like the makings of a mirage (down the rabbit hole he goes, to embrace hallucinations as ordinary), and dreams, well.

Dreams are just another word for nothing left to lose.

In the still of the night, Robin is a spectre—the spirit, among the people.

It’s not until he stumbles into a sharp right turn and finds himself face to face with a dead end that he realizes he’s gone the wrong way. Which, that’s obvious, isn’t it, he’s nowhere left to go, no one left to turn to, and it’s entirely his own doing. He’s… lost (without her, heartless, without her, aching, without her), everything around him is unfamiliar, and it occurs to him that… oh, right, no, he _hasn’t_ been here before. He hasn’t walked these streets, or at least he doesn’t think he has, everything’s gone just… a bit fuzzy, really, and his forehead rests against the wall where a path should be.

There’s no way out.

_Regina would’ve had an alternative exit strategy_.

Regina is lost, to him.

Robin tries to turn around but only makes it about halfway before the last vestiges of his strength leave him, and he’s sliding, sinking along the wall all the way down until he’s crumpled on the ground at the end of the alleyway, slouching against the wall in pain. It’s all he can feel, this hollow, gaping, sharp, stabbing consumption all through his core, and every gasp that’s pulled from his lungs leaves him feeling more numb than before, consciousness slipping rapidly from his mind. The connection between his mind and his legs is broken again, he can’t get up— _why_ can’t he get up?

Sluggishly, he blinks as his gaze (head) falls down, and the tears that drip down meet yellow stone and white snow, all stained with a red vibrant, and full of life.

He’s bleeding.

He’d forgotten he was bleeding.

Blearily, he blinks back down the alleyway, squints to try and discern anything with missing moonlight and oh, oh, it’s snowing, it’s actually fucking snowing, sticking to the stones, and side by side he’s left a trail for Nottingham to follow, blood spattered next to footprints in the snow. And it’s only then that Robin realizes that _it doesn’t fucking matter_ if Nottingham finds him like this or not.

One of three things is going to happen: Nottingham will find him, and kill him; or Robin will freeze to death, in the snow; or he will keep bleeding, and bleeding, until there is nothing left.

Regardless of which of the three it is, they all lead Robin to the same dead end.

He is going to die.

He does not want to die.

He does not have a choice.

And with his last choice—his last moments, Robin is not of Locksley, or Hood for the people, but all heart, on two feet, and he chooses to be selfish, in the end.

As night begins to fade into daybreak, Robin curls against the wall, closes his eyes against the impending sunrise, and dreams of home.


	6. Chapter 6

_“I’m just saying it’s a little odd, that’s all,” Regina says from behind him, voice sounding slightly strained as the work their way up the hill. “You told me once that you left Locksley behind because that’s not who you wanted to be.”_

_“I did,” Robin argues, comes to a stop at the top and adjusting his grip on the thin rope bearing the few rabbits they’d managed to snare, on their way back from the southwest market. Off his right, the murmur and chime of the river catches his ear; he turns his head slightly toward it, eyes scanning the landscape to search for a place to cross. “That had more to do with my father than anything else though, you know that.”_

_“Maybe,” she allows, a bit breathless as she closes the rest of the gap between them, “but choosing a different path lead you to being able to do what you couldn’t, under your father — to make a difference without all of those limitations. I just… don’t get why you’re choosing to go back to all of that.”_

_Robin spots a fallen tree a ways up the river that looks sturdy, high enough above the water to cross. He turns to Regina just as she sidles up next to him and ducks down to her eye level a bit to point it out. “Just there, yeah?”_

_She takes a few seconds to adjust the straps on her bag, catch her breath before she nods her agreement, but she’s not deterred for a moment. “You still haven’t answered the question,” she reminds him, lengthening her strides a bit to keep up with him._

_“Gods, but you’re ornery sometimes, d’you know that?” he mutters, sparing her a half-glance. It’s enough, though, to catch the little quirk of her eyebrow, and tell him she’s not letting him off the hook that easily. “I’m not sure there’s an answer to give, to be quite honest,” he sighs, begins to feel the burn in his legs as the terrain beneath their feet becomes more uneven the closer they get to the tree’s upturned roots. “It’s not as though any of that’s changed. I still want that, I’m just going about it differently. Zelena helped me to see where I could do the most good — to realize my full potential. She sees me for the man I can be.”_

_They’re both quiet for a moment or two while Robin considers their options, tests out an exposed root or two before finding a set steady enough to use to climb up. The tree’s a touch narrower than he’d originally thought, he realizes once he’s atop the trunk; they’ll have to be a bit more careful as they cross. Tentatively, he kneels down and offers out a hand to help her up the rest of the way._

_Regina places her hand in his without protest or fuss, glove gripping glove, but it’s deliberate, he realizes after a moment — a decision to pick and choose her battles in order have a better chance at winning one and gods, Robin enjoys her company but she can be an absolute royal pain in the ass, at times. “I thought love was blind,” she mutters, grunting a little as they work together to pull her up the rest of the way, “not clairvoyant.”_

_Robin rolls his eyes and straightens up, shifting his attention back to the task at hand and slowly taking a few steps forward. “I always figured it was supposed to make you see things more clearly.”_

_“Maybe Zelena should have her eyes checked.”_

_“Meaning?”_

_There’s a beat of silence behind him as he comes to the other end of the makeshift tree-bridge, but her answer can wait, he decides, sunlight catching, glistening off of the water rushing below. Too-quickly, Robin hops off of the end of the tree onto the riverbank, stamps down the patch of dirt beneath him to make sure he’s rooted before he looks back up, just in time to see Regina traversing the last few feet. Her eyes dart to the river and back, the roaring hush of water echoed in the breath she takes, and he can see her nerves in the last few steps she takes, boots catching, halting over bark sharp and uneven._

_This time when Regina places her hand in his, her grip is tighter, more trusting, and he thinks they both breathe a little easier when she’s back on solid ground. She blinks up at him, smile idle, civil, but everything in her expression shifts when he arches his brow expectantly, cheeks flush from more than just the heat. “Meaning Robin of Locksley was never a thorn in my side,” she says, and she’s striving to sound indifferent, he can tell, like they’re talking about the bloody weather and not his relationship with his fiance. “But… it’d be a shame, really,” she ventures, smile softening around the edges and voice tinged with warmth, “to see Robin Hood die.”_

_At that, Robin’s lips twist into a bemused smile, he cannot help it, truly. “The queen’s not alone in her penchant for dramatics, is she?”_

_It’s her turn to roll her eyes at him, tug her hand from his grasp and stalk off down the northeast side of the riverbank toward the water’s edge. “Men, honestly,” she mutters. “That’s the last time I try to pay you a compliment.”_

_“Really?” he chuckles, side-stepping his way down the bank in an effort to find purchase against any muddier patches. “Accusing me of being apocryphal is a compliment?” He glances up, halfway down the bank, just in time to catch her throwing a quizzical look at him over her shoulder. “Inauthentic,” he clarifies, and the flush is in his cheeks, now, for reasons he really can’t explain._

_Her bag hits the bed of rocks with a dull_ thunk _as she kneels down next to the water, uses her teeth to tug her gloves off, one at a time. “Shit,” she laughs, high and clear as she tugs her hair out of its braid and gives him a once-over. “You really were raised as nobility, weren’t you?”_

_Robin wrinkles his nose at the remark as he ambles up next to her, resolutely does not meet her eyes as he sets his supplies down with hers, pulls off his own gloves and settles in for a spell. “You’re making fun of me,” he accuses, voice pitching a little low, and he’s being petulant, he knows he is, but he doesn’t particularly like this, the way she knows how best to get under his skin in just a few damning words._

_Her fingertips brush bare, and warm, against the back of his hand, and the ease with which he allows himself to look at her has something in him twisting._

_And then Regina smiles, teeth digging into her bottom lip and eyes lighting up, and Robin’s heart beats out of time._

_Well fuck._

_“I’m not making fun of you,” she promises, squeezing his hand before withdrawing her own (and he does not, does not give credence to the way his heartbeat sounds hollow, at the loss of her touch). “Teasing, a little, yeah, okay, sure, but I just…” She tapers off for a moment, opens her mouth and then closes it more than once while she contemplates her next words, and it occurs to Robin, then, that she may actually be_ trying _to be kind about all this._

_“You said she sees you for who you can be,” Regina says at last, and there’s a slight edge to her voice, like she really is holding back for his sake. “but I don’t — why do you need to be someone else?”_

_Again, she lapses into silence, smile giving way to a slight frown, brow furrowing as she loses herself to her own train of thought. More than curious, Robin takes a moment to simply observe her while she distracts herself with idle movement, hands dipping into the river to splash water onto her face, neck, fingers combing damp into her locks to force them into submission. There’d been something in the way her voice had caught, splintered just slightly over _someone else_ , and where Regina is striving to be kind Robin’s mind becomes a traitor unto itself, in hearing the words she’d left unspoken._

_Why isn’t who you are enough?_

_This… might not be just about him, he realizes, probably far, far too belatedly. Zelena’s neither here nor there — Regina’s always come across as rather indifferent toward her, to be perfectly honest — but in fighting for Robin’s integrity, it seems Regina may be… projecting, a bit. And he knows — Robin fucking knows what lies inside that particular snake pit, knows her mind’s drifted to a mother who never cared to be one, and the place in his heart he’s buried that secret down deep blossoms, quite suddenly, with a burst of affection for her._

_Hardship has done nothing but make Regina Mills unfailingly kind — rough around the edges, and a little too independent for her own good sometimes, but she’s all heart, on two feet. Wants better for someone, anyone (him), than she was ever granted herself._

_His silence — or his study of her, he can’t be sure which — has made her uncomfortable though, has her shifting into sitting cross-legged on river rocks, eyes growing distant as her fingers work out the last of the tangles in her hair._

_This is not a battle, but an accord, and Robin throws a little kindness her way. “Hang on,” he muses, careful to keep his voice light. “Are you insinuating that you find me more than merely tolerable? Regina Mills,” he gasps, clutching a hand over his heart, “are we... friends?”_

_It works: Regina lets out a soft_ tsk _of derision, rolling her eyes as she bites the piece of twine between her teeth and sweeps her hair over one shoulder. “Oh, we have to be,” she drawls through gritted teeth, fingers twirling, twisting the braid back into form. “Otherwise I probably would’ve broken your nose ages ago.”_

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Robin Hood is dead.”

No.

_No_.

Her saving grace comes in the form of Robin’s scarf covering the bottom half of her face, but even then Regina is forced to cup both hands over it to have any chance of stifling the sharp gasp that escapes her. Granny’s words are like arrows in the dark now, _into the shadows_ and _not a word_ warnings that miss their mark entirely. She’s hardly aware that she’s risen to her feet until she’s already halfway across the cellar, has no idea if her boots have made any sort of noise against the dirt, but Regina cannot tear her eyes away from the scene unfolding above her even if she tried— even if she _wanted_ to. Every instinct that has enabled her to survive this long is twisted in the face of fear into something altogether more reckless, and longing.

(And, well. Regina has always done a pretty spectacular job of wanting things she can’t have.)

There has to be some mistake, this isn’t— this isn’t _right_ , this doesn’t make _sense_. He’s fine— he was _fine_ when she left him ten weeks ago, proud and obstinate and insufferable to the last and in perfect fucking health (so was she, back then, before the first snowfall of the season). If something had happened to him she would’ve heard about it and… no. No, actually, she probably wouldn’t have, if only because she so rarely ventured into towns and markets, before the Lucas’ found her, and wasn’t exactly met with a warm welcome any time she did because liability, liability, she’s a goddamn liability and this whole fucking village is going to— 

“Really?” David asks, sounding marginally interested in the news. And yes, good, let David ask the questions she can’t and get her the answers she wants— answers she really fucking _needs_ , before Snow takes her leave. It forces her to stay present, to keep her mind from clouding with _what if_ s, and Regina shifts slightly beneath the floorboards, trying to get a better view and _get back, get back, get back, I can’t_. “And, uh, Nottingham was sure about that, was he?”

Regina can’t quite see Snow’s expression from this side of the cellar, but she sounds almost… amused, by David’s response. “The sheriff is thick, Charming, but he’s not stupid.”

“I didn’t say he was,” David says, and he sounds indifferent but Regina can see the way his eyes flash, his lips curve into something altogether mocking. “I just meant that the thief has a knack for tricking people with disguises, or sleight of hand.”

“And to that I’d say that Nottingham is incompetent,” Snow throws back, but she too seems delighted at the opportunity to have a laugh at Nottingham’s expense (and Regina would almost laugh, if the circumstances were different, at the realization that this is something the three of them have _in common_ ), “but he’s not blind.”

“Ah,” David replies knowingly, “so he saw the body, then.”

Frantic, Regina sidesteps her way to the right to get a better look at Snow’s face, cringes at the soft sound of dirt shifting beneath her boots. Light casts shadows upon Snow’s face, filters down between the floorboards and catches against Regina’s eyes, blurring the edges of her vision (and no, no, that’s not light, that’s wet, and stinging, and fuck, fuck, gods, she cannot lead with the worst of her here and make assumptions, not now, not _now_ ). And at long last, Snow’s lips curve into an actual smile, and Fear wraps itself around Regina’s throat like Snow’s words are made of ice. “Apparently it wasn’t a very pretty sight,” Snow muses, “according to what Prince John heard.”

Regina falls to her knees with a dull _thunk_ , buries a gasping cry into Robin’s scarf and she cannot _breathe_ : it’s as if someone’s run a fucking blade right through her, trying to force the bleeding she’s been expecting half the winter. Her absent heart twists in the ruins of Sherwood, of camp, of _home_ , pulling her chest tight around the edges and she can’t breathe and this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this cannot _fucking_ be happening— 

“What was that?”

Regina squeezes her eyes shut, breath hitching in her chest as she digs her teeth into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Snow _heard_ her, Regina’s right out in the middle of the cellar and her cloak may be pulled over her head but it won’t mean anything if she doesn’t get these fucking tremors under control and Snow looks down and _sees_ her through the floorboards shit, shit, shit, _shit_. As quietly as she possibly can, she curls in upon herself a little more, spreads her cloak out to try and blend in with the rest of the dirt and silently _wills_ herself to stop shaking, please, please, _please_.

It’s only when she’s halfway to hyperventilating that she actually becomes _aware_ of her own body— of how acutely she can feel the curve of her belly, curled up like this. She can’t move, can’t anchor a palm over it or wrap an arm around her middle and for the first time in six weeks she wishes— _wishes_ she were further along so she might be able to feel her child move. And _that_ is more than instinct to lean into: that’s hope, blossoming even as her heart fucking withers and dies in her chest.

In Sherwood, buried with the ghost of a man who’d given her a home, once upon a time.

Tears sting, slip down her cheeks even as her eyes remain firmly shut, and each breath she takes is short, shallow, and nowhere near enough. She can hear the _swish, swish, swish_ of Snow’s dress as she moves across the barn again and that’s… closer, Regina realizes, even from beneath her cloak, shit, shit, shit, breathe, _breathe_. In, and she has not fought this long to give up on herself now. Out, and _swish, swish, swish_ above her, sending shivers down her spine. In, and she had a place among them, once, and Sherwood, Sherwood, Sherwood. In, out, and _she’s supposed to be here_ , in-out, and _leave, that’s what you’re good at_ , inout and _I want you, always_ , inoutinoutinout and there had been a body, _Nottingham had seen the body_ , Robin is, is— 

“Probably just a rat,” David murmurs from somewhere far too near above her, and she should laugh, Regina should fucking laugh because gods, it’s so fucking true. The entire reason she’s in this mess in the first place is because she couldn’t keep her goddamn mouth shut— because kindness fucking kills, and all she does is keep hurting, and hurting, and hurting. She should laugh, and she can’t, and it’s nothing to do with Snow and everything to do with the way Robin’s name lodges itself in her throat like a prayer gone unanswered.

“I could’ve sworn I heard…” Snow tapers off, pauses for a long minute and from the sound of it, the _swish, swish, swish_ finally comes to a stop not all that far from where Regina resides. “She’s supposed to be here.”

A very long moment of silence follows, and then David is _chuckling_ , low and under his breath and what the fuck is happening? “Oh,” David says, sounding terribly amused and almost… smug about whatever it is he's just realized. “You're not being petty, _Your Majesty_ — you're jealous. They finally managed to do what you still haven't.”

“They didn't _do_ anything,” Snow snaps. Regina's brow wrinkles, and she can't quite stop her mind from falling back into the trap of _this doesn't make sense_ because it doesn't matter, Robin is— “ _They_ practically had their hearts’ desire handed to them on a silver platter after their petty little thief spent nearly a decade running circles around them. _I_ am the one who has spent almost just as long exhausting every possible resource I could get my hands on just to hunt the little bitch down. And now,” she says, voice pitching a little high, “I am… _trying_ to figure out how to do that without my most prized possession so no, Charming, I am not jealous. I’m angry.”

“You’re always angry,” David murmurs, so low that Regina almost doesn’t hear him from beneath her cloak.

“Aren’t you?” Snow counters, thin and sharp.

“Honestly? I don’t know,” he sighs, and for the first time since he’d walked into the barn earlier he actually sounds… tentative with the admission. But he hasn’t thawed toward her, Regina realizes almost immediately, because the next words out of his mouth are, “I’m still trying to remember what that really feels like, among other things.”

A beat, and then, marginally less irritated, “You still can’t say thank you, can you?”

David _hmms_ noncommittally, and then there are footsteps above her, just off to her right and they’re close, so goddamn close to the nook concealing the cellar that even the slightest noise could give her away, now. “You know it’s not you, right?” David murmurs, and it’s soft, low, almost… tender, what the _fuck_. “The people are just trying to save their own skins. You’ve given them plenty of reason not to help her, they’re not— they’re not loyal to her.”

“They’re not loyal to me, either.”

“The guard is,” he says, clearly trying to maintain control of the direction this conversation is going. There’s more there though, behind the pathetic attempt at placating, and Regina can almost hear the words he leaves unspoken.

_So am I_.

She thinks Snow might hear it too: there’s a slight rustling above her like Snow is moving slightly, and the tone of her voice is downright _gentle_ when she answers him (and that too pulls a memory from the very depths of Regina’s mind, an echo of _promise you won’t tell anyone what you saw_ twisting itself into whispers of _not a word_ ). “Nottingham got to watch Robin Hood _bleed_ , David,” Snow says. “I just want to watch the light go out in Regina’s eyes.”

It’s all Regina can do to stifle a sob into Robin’s scarf at the reminder and she must— she _must_ still possess some part of her heart because it’s breaking over what’s left of him all over again, and in the wake of Snow’s desire all Regina can think is _isn’t this close enough_?

“I know,” David replies, “but that’s not going to happen here. Let’s just… be done with this place. You can stop off to get answers out of that witch, and then we can go home.”

Whatever Snow’s reply is, Regina doesn’t hear it. White noise washes over her in waves, dulling her senses; the only things she can feel are the fresh flood of tears upon her face and the gaping— _mawing_ ache in the hollow of her chest. All at once her world narrows down to home: to eyes a crystalline blue that have always seen _her_ , behind all her walls; to a crooked, dimpled little smile that has always made her toes curl; to hands rough and steady and strong that have always been reverent, and protected her from harm; to the smooth timbre of secrets shared across a pillow that made her feel safe, and defined what it meant to not be alone.

Home has never been a place. Not the shoddy shelter of the orphanage, or the stronghold of palace walls. Not the rough bark of a hollowed willow, or the pitched tent in a hidden glen. Home has always been the place— the person with whom she’s been scared to leave her heart, and she had gone and _left it_ of her own free will, and then lost it when she’d tried to get it back. And now— 

Now home is blood stained upon the ground and a body buried beneath it, unless… _did_ they bury him, or did Nottingham— what if he— no, no _no_.

In, out, breathe, or she’ll end up just like him. In, out, breathe, or Snow will finally have her heart’s desire. In, out, breathe, and someone will come back for her. In, out, breathe, and she does not make a sound. In, out, breathe. In. Out. Breathe. Survive. Rinse. Repeat. Survive. Survive. _Survive_.

The first thing she feels, once the rest of her senses come back to her, is the small swell of her belly pressing against her thighs, and it is not enough, she realizes, to simply survive.

Until spring, survive, and once snow is gone, she can endeavor to do the very thing her child’s father cannot, and _live_.

She’s just aware enough of her surroundings to note the difference in the way their voices sound; they’re growing fainter, like they’re walking away, out of the barn, but it’s not enough. She waits, waits until they’ve disappeared entirely, waits a good few minutes more, and then a few more still, and it’s only _then_ that Regina finally unfurls from her position on the ground and flings her hood away with a sucking gasp. The low light filtering from overhead stings as her eyes flutter open — she can hardly see straight, everything’s so blurry, her lashes are still wet, brimming with more unshed tears — and she’s half-blind as she scrambles her way backwards in the dirt, fumbling around until she can find her bag.

And back in the shadows, Regina leans against her bag for support, pulls her knees up to her chest, fists her hands in Robin’s scarf once more, and _cries_.

He’s gone.

He’d been a consummate fucking survivor for half of his life — had slipped away from the hands of angry shopkeepers, put a blade between him and his father, pilfered the royal purse too many times to count, and ran _circles_ around the sheriff and his men — and he’s just… gone. It’s almost difficult to believe that his luck had finally run out. Almost, because Nottingham had watched him bleed, and _there’d been a body_ , and the ache in Regina’s chest swells quite suddenly until it’s crashing down over her and for a long moment it’s as if she’s trapped beneath ice— unable to breathe, and too numb to drown.

Numb, save for the bitter cold.

It’s all that’s left now without him, and _he’s gone_ twists into the fragmented pieces of home, slipping through her fingers once more. There’s nothing— nothing left for her to hold, nothing to go back to and gone, gone, gone. Gone are the depths of blue she’d found it so easy to lose herself in. Gone is the smile only she alone had earned. Gone are the lips that sent shivers down her spine. Gone is the haven she’d laid her secrets to rest, and with it the fragile trust he’d long since built (and broken). Gone is all of his warmth: he had been the sun— _her_ sun in a world otherwise dark, and she loves him, loves him, _loved him_ , god _damn_ , fuck, _fuck_ — 

Regina startles, whips back half-wild when something brushes against her shoulder and gasps halfway through a sniffling cry, tremors wracking her frame and burning the sick still settled in her lungs like the mark of an iron brand. She’s halfway to untangling her hands from Robin’s scarf, can barely see beyond a blur of light as she fights against a rough cough when she hears her name.

“Regina, hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s just me.” And oh, _oh_ , that’s Red, that’s _Red_ , Snow must be gone, they _came back for her_ — “Breathe,” Red says softly, hand settling gingerly at Regina’s back. But she can’t— she _can’t_ , every breath she draws is nothing more than wet and sick and sharp and gone, gone, _gone_. “Regina, it’s okay, you’re safe, they’re gone— she’s gone, okay? The queen is gone, you’re safe.”

And no, she’s not, not really, not ever, not now (and there’s a whisper there, of a promise— a _threat_ yet unfulfilled) but Regina can hardly spare a second thought for the notion because Red’s arms are open for her and she cannot help but fall into them, shaking apart at the seams.

Gone, gone, gone.

“Did something happen?” Red ventures carefully once Regina’s cries aren’t quite so piercing in the cellar. “Are you hurt?” Regina shakes her head against Red’s neck but that’s as much of answer as she can muster at the moment, tongue tied with words she never, _ever_ wanted to speak. Red’s hands are warm, soothing against her skin (and she’d forgotten gloves too, it seems, in her haste to get Regina out of the cellar), and Regina leans into the rhythmic sweep along her temple, the back of her hand and gone, gone, gone. “Okay, let’s… get out of here,” Red murmurs after a moment or two of silence. “Do you— can you stand?”

She can— she does, but it’s a near thing. Her knees are still shaking, knocking together when Red helps her to her feet. Every part of her body feels _heavy_ , like the world had been yanked out from under her feet to become an endless sky, instead, weight crushing upon her shoulders. The most she finds herself able to do is wrap an arm around her middle, and it’s Red who reaches for her bag and hoists it over her shoulder, Red who takes Regina’s hand and leads her slow and steady up the cellar stairs back out into the barn, one step at a time.

It’s not quite so difficult to breathe up here — the air isn’t quite so thick — but stepping back into the light still makes her eyes sting even as her vision clears a little. She squints a little as Red leads her through the barn and back out into the open, is able to discern the murky brown of the path back to the cottage, snow a white flare around the edges. There’s a splash of Red before her, reaching for her hands and _Nottingham got to watch Robin Hood bleed_ and her sun is gone, gone, gone.

It’s warmer in the cottage than it had been in the barn, heat from the fire spreading from the front all the way back to the washroom. The numbness breaks open into something much more raw, blistering around the edges, and Regina can only shiver in response, hand shaking something awful in Red’s grasp. There’s a dull _thump_ as Red sets Regina’s bag down… somewhere before she knocks the back door shut with her hip. And then she’s stepping into Regina’s space and reaching for her without a second thought, tucking a stray lock behind Regina’s ear and gone, gone, gone.

“C’mere,” Red murmurs, using her grip to pull Regina over toward one of the larger chests shoved against a wall in the washroom. Everything’s still a bit blurry as Red bustles around her; the last of her tears are still thick, brimming on her lashes even as they begin to ebb at last. The bright, stinging flickers of Red and sun and candlelight force her to close her eyes again, just for a minute, just long enough to catch her breath and bring her heart back down to center and gone, gone, gone. It takes several more half-steady breaths before Regina realizes that it’s not despair alone causing her world to tilt. This is a dizzy spell, too, the first one she’s had in _days_ , and in lieu of the coughing fits that have plagued for weeks Regina is left with nothing but a sore, stinging squeeze around the edges of her lungs.

Sick sinks its claws in deep, and strives to find a weakness in the fracture now forming along her soul.

_No_ blossoms up from down deep again, the same raging, furious instinct she’s been struggling to even just allow, much less lean into, but Red pulls her focus before she has the chance to dwell on it. “Here,” Red offers gently, pressing something— a damp cloth, most likely into Regina’s free hand. “I’ve filled the basin for you. It’s not exactly warm, but it should do the job just fine. Wash up a bit, okay? Try and clear your head a little. I’ll have Granny pull open the medicine chest while I make you some tea.”

Blearily, Regina blinks her eyes open and squints, sniffs a little as she tries to regain some semblance of composure enough to speak. To say anything that might make sense here, like _okay_ or _I can’t_ or _thank you_ , but still the words stick in her throat, blocked by the ones poised on her tongue that she cannot, _will not_ allow to spill forth. So she manages a weak nod, instead, and swallows down the plea of a promise already fulfilled: _please, come back_.

It’s another long moment or two of shivering and sniffling before Regina can muster up the energy to even glance down at the damp cloth Red had pressed into her hand. Only then does she realize she still has an arm wrapped around her middle, and this time she has to actively fight against the coiling instinct in order to unfurl and pull away. The damp cloth has made the dirt on her hand tacky, sticky, and when she pulls it away to turn toward the basin at her side she finds a smudged red-brown smattered across her skin and gone, gone, fucking _gone_.

She’s plunging her hands into the water without a second thought, gasps at the shock of ice-cold rippling through her but doesn’t pull away. Not until she’s scrubbed the worst of it off. Not until she’s used twice as much soap than is necessary to lift the stain upon her skin. Not until she’s worked the cloth over her hands over, and over, and over again until her palms are bright pink and half-raw, stinging quickly into a tingling numbness beneath the water. Not until all of the bl—dirt is gone from her hands and the weight of the world shifts off of her shoulders and back where it belongs and gone, gone, gone, her home is _gone_.

The cloth slips from her fingers and slinks into the water with the softest of sounds and Regina finds herself gripping the edge of the basin _hard_ , eyes slipping shut as she forces herself to breathe, out, in, out… out.

She has to get out.

It’s such a remarkably different feeling, the thought of leaving of her own volition in juxtaposition to being forced out— and, to be perfectly honest, it doesn’t actually make her feel any _better_. She takes solace, what little there is to be had, in the knowledge that her leaving gives all of them a fighting chance because yes, Snow may have left, but Regina knows her too well — heard too much, down in that cellar — to be naive about what happens next. She is a goddamn liability (wonders, idly, if perhaps she always has been, even before she ever drew her first breath), and she will not give credence to the one thing she has spent her entire life trying to convince herself isn’t true.

She does not, cannot, _will not_ destroy everything she touches— not while she still has a chance to protect, and preserve.

Once more, her hand finds the still small— still _growing_ curve of her belly, and she reminds herself again that this is not just about her anymore. Her choices matter more than they ever have, and where so many of them have been taken from her or forced by circumstance, this is one she knows she can own— _wants_ to own, if only for one reason. Because home…

Home was always the heart of a man who’d stolen hers and encouraged her to be brave where she hadn’t before— probably always _will be_ , honestly. But loving him meant that home also meant so much _more_ , beyond him, and no matter what he may have said to make her leave (no matter if he meant it, or regretted them before they’d even pierced her heart), Regina knows her own heart well enough even in all of its shattered pieces to know it hadn’t been the truth.

Because those boys— those men, were thieves in their own right, and where Robin had left a gaping hole in her heart the rest of them cobbled together the pieces forming the hollow left behind, and maybe… Maybe she hasn’t lost all of them to Sherwood, these jagged pieces of her heart, but kept at least one for her own— to break in two, and pass down to the hope that’s kept her alive, since she left.

The Merry Men had been her _family_ , blood be damned, and Regina _has_ to hope, beyond all reason, that even without Robin at their core, they might welcome her back into their fold, and allow their family to grow by one more.

With the choice as hers alone, Regina resolves to go _home_ , and she will do whatever it takes to find them.

She has to leave.

Her breathing quickens when she lifts her gaze to glance around the washroom. She’s no idea how long it’s been since Snow and the guard have left the village but she’s sure there’s precious little left for her to work with regardless, if she’s going to make it out of this alive. In a rush she’s releasing her grip on the basin and splashing water onto her face before drying off, eyes scanning the room until her gaze lands on the spot Red had dropped her bag earlier. In four strides she’s across the room and hoisting it up over her shoulders, wincing a little at the weight she’s not sure she’s all that equipped to carry at the moment.

Still, she doesn’t exactly have a choice, and while most of her life is tucked into the pack on her back there are still a few things missing— a few things she refuses to leave without, in the face of impending Snow. She makes one last pass over the washroom, the back bedroom before ducking out cautiously into the hall. The shutters are still closed, trapping in the warmth and enticing smells of burning wood and tea and medicinal oils and it’s almost enough, after two weeks of shelter and food and tender care, to instill a sense of yearning strong enough to make her drop her bag where she stands and sink onto the chaise next to the fire.

Almost.

“There you are,” Granny huffs upon spotting her lingering in the hallway. “I was beginning to wonder—”

“My bow,” Regina says, more sharply than she’d intended. “You said you put it with yours. Where—”

“It’s… on the other side of the hearth,” Red answers, but there’s something there, hidden behind the ease with which she’d supplied that answer and shit, shit, _shit_ , Regina is going to have to make this fast. “Why—” 

“I doubt I could win a fight right now,” Regina huffs, brushing past Red toward the far end of the room. She has to kneel awkwardly on the chaise, reach over the edge of it to even grab hold of the last of her possessions tucked away into the corner. The quiver’s a little too far for her to reach easily, but she manages to hook her fingertips around the front of her bow and pulls it to her. The length of the bow allows her to tug, tip the quiver closer to her, but she only just manages to catch it in time to prevent the arrows from spilling onto the floor. “Range,” she says, voice a bit strained as she pulls them up over the edge of the chaise and sets her bag down next to them, “is the best defense I have at the moment.”

“Because you’re still sick,” Granny reminds her needlessly, but there’s something… hard, in her tone, that has Regina squirming uncomfortably while she slings the strap of her quiver over her head first.

“Wait, you’re not… leaving,” Red says, voice pitching a little high at the end like she’s looking for reassurance. “That’s crazy, you can’t just—”

“The whole fucking _world_ is crazy, remember?” Regina reminds her, sharper still as she tucks the bow around the quiver. “And maybe I did a shit job at keeping myself alive during a handful of blizzards but I managed on my own for a long time. I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not the point,” Granny counters, and there’s a scraping noise across the floor— the legs of the chair Granny had been sitting in, Regina thinks. “It’s not just _you_ who you’re looking out for anymore.”

“I know that!” Regina says, half-shouting it across the small space as she whirls back around and her voice cracks, breaks somewhere in the middle. “That’s exactly why I have to leave.”

“No, you don’t,” Red counters, a slight twinge of desperation in her voice as she takes a step forward. “If anything, it’s exactly why you should stay. I know the guard showing up with the queen probably just made you more paranoid but Regina, she’s _gone_ , okay? She’s not going to conduct a raid in the same place more than once—”

“You really don’t get it,” Regina breathes, half the fight leaving her all at once. “ _She’s coming back_.”

“She didn’t find you—”

“That doesn’t fucking matter!” Regina argues, struggling not to raise her voice and only half-succeeding. “She _knew_ I was here. I don’t know how, and I don’t really care right now. She knew I was here, and she didn’t find me, which means she’s going to take her anger out on someone else.” She takes a half-step in Red’s direction, stops when she sees a brief flicker of yellow in Red’s eyes, but Regina forces herself to stand her ground and tries to breathe evenly. “Snow is going to come back,” she says, low and strained, “and if she doesn’t burn this entire fucking village to the ground, then she is going to rip the heart out of every person who’s been left behind. _Trust me_ ,” she implores, fingers fidgeting, flexing in an effort not to reach for Robin’s scarf or wrap an arm around her middle. “I’ve seen it happen more than once.”

Some of the fight leaves Red too, at that, her shoulders falling as she exhales slowly and shifts her gaze to Granny. Regina follows it with ease, breathes a little easier at the way Granny’s lips have thinned into a line. There’s little else in her expression that would give her away while she studies Regina carefully, but Granny is far more practical than Red— understands Snow better, in the face of being denied what she wants most.

When Red ventures a tentative _Granny?_ , Regina watches the Huntsman’s mother do what she wouldn’t, almost ten years ago. “Pack,” she instructs— barks, really, even as her eyes stay fixed on Regina. “Only what we need, and only what we can carry. _Quickly_ , Red,” she urges. Red hesitates, just for a half moment more, but she makes her way to the back room far quicker than should be humanly possible, the sound of drawers being opened and shut following almost immediately.

“Please don’t think I’m ungrateful,” Regina whispers, breath catching, hitching around tears she will not shed, not yet, not until she’s gotten them out of this mess. “I’d be dead, if not for your kindness.” A beat, and then, only just refraining from glancing down, “We both would, and there’s not— I can’t repay you for that. If—”

“If we’ve told you once, we’ve told you close to a dozen times,” Granny dismisses, brushing past Regina as she crosses the room toward the chaise to retrieve her own bow from the corner, “we won’t hear of it. Now,” she huffs, straightening up a bit as she glances around the room briefly, “given that you ended up with us because you had nowhere else to go, I’m assuming it’s up to us to come up with a suitable place to take up shelter for a little while. Not the next village over,” she mutters, and she’s talking to herself, Regina realizes, trying to plan quickly. “Too risky for that, and the farther away we keep you from people the better. There’s a man about a day’s ride from here who’s a friend of mine. It’s not a long term solution but for a few weeks, at least, until the snow starts to let up—”

“ _No_ ,” Regina interjects harshly, jaw set when Granny glances— glares, really, back over her shoulder. “Take Red there, if that’s where you feel the most safe, but I’m not staying with you.”

“Like hell you’re not,” Granny argues, and shit, she’s _angry_ , she’s going to fight Regina tooth and nail on this and drag this out and _they do not have time for this_.

“This is exactly my point,” Regina says, her tone brooking no argument. “I won’t have more blood on my hands, Granny, not if I can help it. If I’m caught and you’re found with me, Snow will _slaughter you_ just like she did your son. This isn’t any different than what he did.”

“My son is _dead_ ,” Granny grits out, and behind the anger there is grief that Regina knows she has long since buried and gone, gone, gone. “And you are standing there asking me to risk letting the same thing happen to you.”

“You promised him you’d look after Red,” Regina reminds her, and it’s a low blow, she knows, but they’re beyond that now, out of time for tact and kindness (and kindness fucking kills, so maybe _this_ is how she ensures they survive, where so many others have not and gone, gone, gone). “It’s not your job to protect me.”

For a long moment Granny simply stares at her, almost like she’s at a loss for words in the face of something damn near _insulting_ , and Regina hates this, she _hates_ it, she sounds fucking callous about all the help they’ve given her, fuck, fuck, fuck. But she’s crossed that line, has stepped into the ghost of a man who possessed her lover and broke her heart, and there’s nothing left for Regina to do but follow through. The breath she takes as she turns back toward the chaise is uneven at best, and she finds her hands shaking once more when she reaches for her bag, _where_ are her gloves, god _damn_ it.

“You are being stubborn,” Granny says, low and thin and bordering on dangerous (she can’t shift anymore, she can’t do any harm, she would never try to hurt Regina and safe, safe, gone). Regina swallows hard and swings her bag back over the shoulder opposite her quiver, careful to leave easy access to her bow. “Stubborn, and stupid, and _reckless_ for no good reason when it’s smarter, and safer to stay with us and—”

“Because Robin is dead!” she chokes out, half- _screaming_ it across the cottage and the words are like shoving a stake through her own heart as she spins, blinks past the sudden dizzy spell and fuck, _fuck_ , she’s crying again, downright close to fucking sobbing and she cannot afford her grief, not now, not until she’s _gone_ and safe.

She’s hardly aware of the way Granny’s expression shifts at the outburst, can hardly _breathe_ at the sudden swell of ache in her chest and no, no, she can’t do this, not now, shit, shit, shit.

“Robin?” Red echoes softly as she emerges out into the hall with two bags that are more than likely overpacked. Regina can see the way her brow wrinkles as she tries to put the pieces together, and she shouldn’t — Regina shouldn’t stay, shouldn’t linger, it’ll only give them time to make more fruitless arguments — but the gentle slide of Red’s fingers along the curve of her belly is like a phantom all around her now, and Regina doesn’t really have any other choice other than to grip the back of the nearest chair for purchase and try to remember how to fucking breathe. “Wait, you mean… Robin Hood, of the Merry Men? That Robin?”

“I didn’t know you knew them,” Granny says, and there’s caution in her voice in place of the anger now, shit, shit, shit. “That still doesn’t explain why you think it’s better to strike out on your own than come with us. We’re not asking you to protect us either.”

“Protect us?” Red echoes, clearly confused and shit, they’re toeing a thin line here, between secrets and lies, and Regina will not be responsible for tearing the rest of this family apart. “I don’t understand, what does protecting us have to do with— _oh_.” Regina digs her teeth into her lower lip, silently _wills_ herself to stop crying, even just a little, but then the words she’s swallowed down since Red came for her in the cellar are falling from Red’s lips, instead. “You knew him. You knew him, and you wanted to find him but— _gods_ ,” Red breathes as the pieces fall into place. “No wonder he wasn’t there when you went back, he’s— oh Regina. Is that— did you find out, while you were in the cellar? You overheard someone talking about it?”

It is impossible, absolutely, unequivocally impossible for her to stop crying now, breath coming sharp and shallow as she squeezes her eyes shut and tries, one more time, to make a clean break. “He’s _gone_ ,” she whispers, fingers curling around the back of the chair in an effort to stay standing. “I don’t— I don’t know if it was because of me, or if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, or some other godforsaken reason, but he’s _gone_ , okay? The one person I loved more than anyone else in my entire fucking life is just _gone_ , and my child—”

Robin’s name becomes a lump in her throat once more and it _hurts_ to swallow down around it, and push more damning words forward. “If I can even manage to bring it into this miserable fucking world, my child is never going to know its father,” she chokes out, and it’s a broken, hopeless thing even where a future blossoms within it. Her heart positively _thrums_ in the in between, broken and buzzing and beating her senselessly in an effort to try and reconcile love with anger, and grief with hope.

The rest of the fight leaves her when she opens her eyes, but she thinks the battle might be won by now, or near enough to the end to claim victory as her own. Exhausted and longing for rest, and home, and a heart she cannot have, Regina turns slightly to face them, still gripping the back of the chair tight. “You think I’m asking you to _let me_ risk my own life, but that’s… not your call to make. Too many people have died because of me,” she breathes. “I won’t have more blood on my hands, not if I can do something to prevent it from happening. And there is a big, big difference between me choosing to risk my own life, and letting you risk yours _for me_.”

Granny’s expression is practically unreadable now as her mind sorts through Regina’s admissions, but it’s Red who speaks up first, barely the beat of a breath passing by before her reply. “And maybe _that_ ,” Red says, and there’s that authority in her voice again, beyond age and beast and anything in between, “isn’t _your_ call to make.”

Regina’s heart picks up pace and practically pushes her across the room, in, out, out, she has to fucking get _out_. “ _Please_ ,” she begs, hands cupping Red’s face in earnest, “don’t make this any harder for me than it already is. Robin is gone— don’t ask me to risk losing you, too.”

Red blinks at that, once, twice and then her eyes are flickering between brown and yellow into a damn near brilliant gold and there’s a slight hitch in her breath and a quiver to her smile and oh, _oh_ , fuck, shit shit shit no. Above anything else _this_ is the thing she can afford the least: not sentimentality, or coercion driven by guilt, but _attachment_ , where she is trying to make a clean break.

_That’s how you know it’s important: it’s something you can’t bear to lose._

All at once Regina finally understands _why_ she can still feel down to the depths of her soul even with her heart scattered in pieces across the Enchanted Forest.

Robin had been right: she is all heart, on two feet, and once she’d taken her walls down, for him, there had been too much love to hold in her own hands.

And she is done— so, so beyond done with destroying everything she touches.

In the end love stays trapped between her lungs, and neither Granny nor Red gets the chance to make one last plea for her to stay.

Beyond the cottage walls, a scream shatters the silence in the air, and all three of them startle and quickly turn to face the front door.

They’re out of time.


	7. Chapter 7

“ _Please_ ,” Regina implores one last time, scarce able to breathe when she meets their eyes. “If you really want to help me, you’ll do what I ask. _Leave_ ,” she chokes out, “and _don’t_ look back.”

And for once, Regina takes her own advice, makes for the back bedroom, for a way out, and doesn’t so much as glance over her shoulder— no matter how much she finds she wants to stay.

There are more screams to echo the first as she ducks into the back bedroom, awkwardly sidestepping some of the things Red had pulled out and ultimately decided to leave behind. Swallowing hard, Regina keeps her eyes forward and tries not to listen. She cannot— _cannot_ save an entire village from Snow’s wrath even if she tried. The best she can do right now is put some distance between her and anyone who might end up collateral damage. She nearly runs into the wardrobe door Red’s left slightly ajar, makes to push it shut so she can get by, but something catches the edges of her vision, and she pulls the door farther open, instead.

There, at the bottom of the wardrobe, are her gloves.

Fucking _finally_.

Quickly Regina reaches down and snatches them from the wardrobe floor, breathing a little easier now that she’s certain she’s leaving with everything she had with her when they brought her inside. She tugs one on as she crosses the threshold into the washroom, slips into the other by the time she arrives at the back door and reaches for the handle. For less than half a moment she lets her hand hover, closes her eyes and takes a measured breath. There is _nothing_ more important right now than to make it out of this alive; everything else can wait for when she can afford the time.

Careful to keep exceptionally quiet, Regina pulls open the back door slowly and cautiously peers outside. There’s no one in sight, on the back half of the Lucas’ plot, no one lingering near the barn. The screams grow louder still, overlapping until they’re discordant, but none of the voices seem to be getting _closer_ , which is half the battle right now. Cautiously, Regina takes a step out of the cottage, pulls the door shut behind her and gives the landscape one last look before she sets off down the same path she’d traveled less than an hour ago. She finds herself exceptionally grateful that the snow’s let up even for just a day or so: it means she doesn’t have to worry quite as much about leaving footprints for Snow to follow, and increases the chances that she can make it out undetected.

She chooses to duck through the barn rather than go around; there’s less chance of being seen, and it gives her a brief reprieve from trying to block out the screaming as Snow descends upon the village once more.

It gets easier, once she’s emerged on the other side. The village is more densely populated over here, cabins and cottages closer together. Regina makes the most of the extra cover, scales sideways along the outer walls and saves her strength for the sprint she’ll have to make, once she gets to the edge of the little town. She doesn’t have as much difficulty breathing out here, either, the air cleaner, less stifled and smoky and stale than it had been in the Lucas’ cottage, but every deep breath she takes is a painful reminder that she is still mending, and there are limits to what she’ll be able to do.

Gods, she hopes she can run, when the time comes.

Regina’s not quite sure what to make of the fact that she’s yet to cross paths with anyone on her way out. She thinks— hopes that those who were wise enough to take their leave the very second that Snow left the village are far enough away not to be caught once the guard inevitably spreads out to search the fringes. Those who remain… well. Those who remain are less likely to make a clean getaway, particularly given that everyone seems to be walking right out of their front doors and into the Royal Guard’s waiting hands.

And… there’s no smoke, in the air, no tell-tale glow of fire anywhere along the row of houses before her, which means this is going to be bad, and bloody beyond belief.

Fucking shit.

There’s a phantom squeeze around the edges of her heart, a stuttering in her chest where she’d lost the ability to breathe for a moment, but the memory twists into fire mere inches from her face, flickers, fades into the relief that had flooded her lungs when Robin’s arrow had found its mark.

All she has to do is make it out alive, in order to give their child a fighting chance.

Still, her breath comes out shaky, uneven when she reaches the last house along the row, and she’s slower in creeping up along a path between this house and the next, careful to keep to the shadows just in case someone comes by. The melted snow still cracks, breaks, gives way beneath her boots, each _crunch_ accompanied by a soft little _snap_ , but it’s quiet, indiscernible amidst the cacophony coming from the long lane between the rows of houses.

A decent sized woodpile sits stacked high and wide just off the front porch of the cabin on her right and this— this is good fortune as opposed to the luck that’s gotten her this far without any altercations. Part of her refuses to question it, not when she needs it the most, but the logical part of her exercises caution where her heart often doesn’t (and it’s that really, her goddamn heart, that’s most reckless of all). Carefully, she approaches the woodpile, eyes darting all around in case anyone else is lying in wait.

The closest person turns out to be four houses down in either direction, so Regina ducks behind the woodpile unseen and tugs the hood of her cloak up over her head to better blend in with her surroundings. In, out, fingers flexing to be ready in case she has to reach for an arrow, and Regina cautiously peers back down the way she came. There are… patches of confrontations along the lane but fewer than she’d expected, given the screaming. Still, she reasons, there are fewer homes on that side of town, and she knows a good number of them cleared out before the place erupted in chaos.

(Her eyes strain as she searches for a wisp of gray-white hair, a cloak of rich red but she finds none, and can only hope that they’ve made it out alive.)

She spies David, several houses down, forcing a young man who looks close to Red’s age to his knees, and within seconds there’s a pair of dwarves upon him, binding his limbs together with rope to keep him from fleeing.

Regina’s heart beats, _bleeds_ in her throat, and she forces herself to look away.

The price of giving her child its best chance, it seems, is more blood on her hands.

Fuck.

Aching, she turns to look down the other way, surveying the danger between her and her way out. There are more dwarves here— it’s not just the Royal Guard, but dozens upon dozens of the little soldiers, like Snow is building up an army to cut people off at the knees. Regina digs her teeth into her lower lip as they break through one door after another, pickaxes hoisted over their shoulders as they cross thresholds and provoke terror all along the lane. It’s harder to block out the screams, on this side of town, and she’s much quicker about shifting her attention away this time.

The thing is, every last altercation seems to be on either side of her, several houses down. The houses closest to her are very much empty, and there’s no guard close enough to reach her, should she end up spotted. And that’s… all she has to do, she realizes: make it from one side of the lane to the other without being seen, and duck back behind the next row of cottages and cabins in order to stealthily make her way closer to the edge of the village.

All she has to do is time it perfectly.

Another measured breath to steady herself, one more as she indulges in idly rubbing a hand over the gentle curve of her belly, and then Regina forces herself to peek out from behind the woodpile and fixate on the direct path she’ll take in sprinting across the lane. It’s not… terribly far, close enough that she thinks she can avoid a coughing fit once she reaches the other side, provided she gives herself a moment’s rest. Behind the back of the house isn’t a stretch of land, like the Lucas’ have, or even a barn, but a dense treeline leading into the forest proper. That should make things easier, she thinks, in working her way past the rest of the guards toward the edge of the village— 

A startled shout pulls her focus, has her looking back in the direction of the Lucas’ cottage. It sounded decidedly… different, than the screams she’s been trying so desperately to block out, but it takes her half a moment more to realize that’s because it’d come from one of the guards, instead, and not one of the villagers. Curious and more than a little confused, Regina spares a glance over her shoulder before shuffling closer to the other side of the woodpile and survey the scene unfolding before her.

She’s not left to wonder long: barely a minute passes before David’s whipping around to look out in the direction from which Regina originally came. There’s a beat of hesitation before he figures out whatever it is that’s happening, draws in a breath, opens his mouth and— 

— and whatever command he’d been about to issue to the dwarves is lost to the thunder that ripples its way across the ground. In the blink of an eye a whole host of horses come galloping up the lane, a rider astride each one. Damn near breathless, Regina watches as half of them pull on the reins and dismount, descending into the fray and placing themselves — and whatever weapons they have on hand — between the villagers and the dwarves. The rest of them are _loud_ as they gallop past her, whooping and laughing and shouting out orders between them and Regina is rising to her feet without a second thought, eyes following, fixating on a rider or two to get a better look and that’s— is that— _no_.

That’s John.

That is unequivocally, blessedly all six feet and curly hair of Little John, and Regina’s heart practically falls out of her chest at the sight of him.

And that’s Will, riding alongside him, and Alan farther down the lane, and when Regina looks back she finds David nursing a wound and Tuck helping the young man from before up onto his horse before remounting himself and fuck, _fuck_ , fucking hell, this is a dream— a _wish_ far beyond her wildest daring.

This isn’t a robbery— it’s a fucking _rescue_ , and home, it seems, has found its way back to Regina.

Her heartbeat blossoms out to the edges, a too-rapid thrumming that makes her feel like lightening, waiting to strike. Quickly she moves back to the other side of the woodpile, curls her gloved fingers around the edge and peers back out across the lane and this— _this_ is fucking crazy. This is instinct adapting to circumstances beyond her control and straddling the thin line between being quick on her feet and acting on impulse. She doesn’t _do_ this, doesn’t go in without a way out, refuses to just make shit up as she goes along because the risk has never been something she’s been able to afford.

The best she has right now is an adaptive exit plan and even now, halfway through, she finds herself making changes to take advantage of the kindness fate has granted her in allowing them to cross paths. She can _do_ this, she can make it out of this in one piece and find her way home. She just has to stay focused, aware of her surroundings, quick on her feet and fucking remember how to breathe before the rest of her energy is sapped from her body.

In, out, and she stretches out the muscles in her legs. In, out, in, and she spares a look in either direction to ensure her path is clear. Out, in, out, in, out, and her gaze shifts, fixates on the small path between the two houses just across the lane, and the depths of forest just beyond. In, out, in, one parting glance just to be sure, just in case one of the guards turns at the last possible second, and Regina damn near _flies_ across the lane.

The same cacophonous symphony clashes around her as she runs— _sprints_ toward the forest beyond the houses. Shout is indiscernible from scream, every high neigh of horse nearby echoes the piercing clash of blades, laughter countering every lament and Regina hears _none_ of it against the thunder of her own heartbeat in her ears. Fear drips down out of her heart with each step, finds the Sick still settled in her lungs until together they ignite a fire, burning every breath that she fights to keep. Not much farther now, so close, she hasn’t been running that long, the lane is barely fifty feet across and there’s a tingling at the back of her throat, no, no, so close, right there, right there, don’t look back, _don’t fucking stop_ — 

She trips, half-stumbles her way into the narrow path between the two houses, reaches out and slaps fitfully at the siding on one of the houses in an effort to find purchase. Thunder rises, strikes its way from her ears to her head, behind her eyes and she can hardly see straight, vision swimming as she fumbles her way down toward the treeline. Nearly there, less than twenty feet and she’s forced to hold her breath just to suppress the cough that’s clawing its way out of her throat no, no, no, so close, right there, there’s refuge right there, in the forest and yes, _yes_.

Regina bursts through the treeline, rounds a large oak and digs her gloves into the bark, desperate for purchase. The cough stutters out of her the very instant she’s hidden, refusing to be suppressed any longer, and it’s all she can do to bury her face into arm to muffle the sound. It’s not until the cough has tapered off, not until her throat feels blistered and raw, that she can hear anything beyond her own heartbeat. And still, it’s faint, farther away than she had been, hiding behind the woodpile, and she struggles to separate the sounds out while she catches her breath and regains her composure.

At least until John’s voice rings out above anything else, and while his bellowed instructions are for the Merry Men still scattered along the lane, Regina finds herself drawn out of the treeline upon hearing him. He can’t be far, she thinks, and even if he’s not near enough to take her with him, he can still _help her_ , if she can just catch his attention. From the sound of things, he’s the one in charge of this little operation, and if nothing else, he can make sure someone else gets to her in time.

(Robin, she thinks, would have been proud of him.)

Tentatively, Regina tiptoes her way back toward the nearest cottage and takes up the same approach as before, sidestepping along the back wall from one building to the next, careful to keep to the shadows. Her fingers flex anxiously in an effort not to pull her waterskin from her bag; she needs a drink, desperately, would fare better through another sprint if she paused long enough to take a long pull from it. But she holds out, decides to wait until she’s closer to the edge of town and searching for John amidst the chaos. She can avoid another sprint until then, she thinks, as long as no one crosses her path.

That, in particular, looks less and less likely with each cottage she passes. Every home along this side of the lane is empty by now. Some, she knows, have been pulled out into the center of the lane by the dwarves and, she hopes, are now being helped by the Merry Men in an effort to minimize the bloodshed. Others seem to have made a break for it out their back doors, unlike those on the opposite side of the lane. Half of the doors are still open, smoke spiraling from every other chimney, and every so often Regina finds herself stepping over possessions discarded or dropped in their haste to get out alive: a clutch of books here, a chipped teacup there— a well-loved ragdoll hugging the treeline and missing an eye, on the right side.

There are five cabins left before the row of dwellings ends on this side of the lane, but each is farther apart than the last, and it’s too much open space that Regina would rather avoid trying to sneak her way through, if given the choice. Instead she ducks into the space between two houses, notes idly how much quieter her footsteps are here, where there’s more dirt and less snow. She’s well hidden here, awnings practically touching and giving her plenty of cover, and it’s easy to stay in the shadows the closer she gets to the lane.

Her eyes sweep over the lane from one end to the other in search of John, but she doesn’t have to look long before she spots him all the way at the edge of the village calling out orders. A horse with a pair of riders gallop by him quickly, then another, maybe a moment later, and Regina realizes that he’s holding the town line— acting as a checkpoint, for the others to go through, even if they split up after.

He’s making sure every one of the men makes it out alive— and that they take as many of the villagers with them as they can.

And with them all rides the Ghost of Sherwood, guiding hand and heart to the most noble of pursuits.

For the space of a breath, there’s a flicker of warmth in Regina’s chest, and the ache where her heart should be doesn’t feel quite so hollow when her hands curl around Robin’s scarf.

Still, John isn’t close enough for Regina to catch his eye without risking drawing too much attention to herself, so she doesn’t have much choice here. She’s going to have to brave the open stretches of land between dwellings in order to get close to the edge of the village where John holds his post. If she ends up having to sprint again she’s not sure she’d make it very far against the tingling fatigue in her chest; her energy is already stretched thin enough as it is.

Very much aware of how little time she has to pull this off, if any at all, Regina chews her lip and glances around the corner of one house, then the other before doing a double take. Breath settles into her lungs with ease, cool and even, at the sight of a water pump just off the front of the house on her left. She starts forward and then… stops, just for a second, before retreating into the shadows of the awnings. A quick drink would last her for a little while — enough to get her out of this, she thinks — but there’s no guarantee how this will end, exactly, and if she ends up on her own again she knows all too well how dismal her (and her child’s) chances will be if her waterskin remains empty.

Just an extra moment or two, she reasons, she can afford that. The pump isn’t all that far out in the open, the guards are scattered, Regina’s face is still mostly hidden by her cloak, David is all the way at the other end of the village— and even if someone were to try and attack her, there are a good handful of Merry Men nearby she’s almost certain she could rely on to help her if her bow proves useless. She just has to evade capture long enough to make it out before Snow comes back, and red stains white.

Red.

Gods, Regina hopes they make it out alive.

There’s not as much snow on this side of the village but the ground is still cold against her knees when she sinks down, prompting a low hiss out of her as she brings her bag around to her front to loosen the drawstring. She can’t quite help the shiver that ripples through her as she pulls the bag open, ignores the wispy spiral of smoke-like breath from her mouth (it’s getting colder, another storm is probably rolling in, can’t be more than a few hours away and shit, shit, striking out on her own really isn’t an option anymore). It’s been several days since she’s really looked through her bag: she’s not quite sure how far down her waterskin might be buried, doesn’t know if Red or Granny had sorted through her things since she last looked— 

This time, the scream that startles her out of her skin is downright _harrowing_ , has ice lancing through her and rooting her to ground without frost. The effort at controlling her breathing is almost immediately pointless, in the face of Fear, and her head snaps up without a second thought. She’s damn near frantic as her eyes dart from left to right and back again, straining to see the source; it’d been in front of her, off to the left, whoever it is can’t be that far— 

Oh, oh _no_.

Across the lane, about four cottages down and just shy of the edge of the town (not far from where John is— was, where the _fuck_ did he go, Regina only looked away for half a moment), a small boy no more than a year older than Skip is stumbling backward, eyes wide as he trembles something _awful_. All at once Regina feels herself split in two: the more logical part of her — the part that has gotten her this fucking far, and has at least some semblance of an exit strategy — turns scathing, incredulous at the sight of him alone because seriously, who the _fuck_ wouldn’t pack up and leave with their children immediately after the queen finished conducting a raid, much less _leave their child alone_ when all hell breaks loose.

But logic — _survival_ pales in comparison to the reckless heart she’s finally allowed herself to be brave enough to become, and all rational thought is out of the question when the boy’s back hits the side of the cottage. He doesn’t have a way out, out, she has to get him out, she can’t just _leave him_ , he’s _terrified_. He doesn’t even scream, won’t so much as blink or tear his eyes away from the person preparing to pick him apart and Regina’s eyes shift, follow his eyeline— 

No.

_No_.

It is every bit the privilege her power gives her that dictates Snow’s slow advance. She’s practically _sauntering_ in the boy’s direction, hands settled at her hips and she’s too far away for Regina to see her properly but her memory fills in the details with stark clarity: a smile too hollow to be genuine; eyes alight with fire in lieu of flames in her hand; chest rising and falling with short bursts of breath as rage builds, boils, bubbles to the surface. She isn’t just on a warpath; she’s out for blood, and Hunger takes on a whole new meaning in Snow’s hands.

Regina’s to her feet before she’s even aware that she _can_ think it through, hands tightening the drawstring on her bag and adjusting their grip as she steps out of the shadows and into the light. This is stupid, this is reckless, she is already several feet out into the lane and right out in the open but Regina resolutely does not _care_ because she has had enough. She can’t save an entire village, she can’t fight magic with arrows but she’ll be damned if she allows Snow’s twisted vengeance to turn upon Innocence as an absolute.

This has gone far enough, and Regina will not have more blood on her hands.

Over her shoulder her bag goes once more, hands still gripping the top of it tight, and the tingling burning in her lung bursts into flame as she sets off across the lane, strides too long, quick for the sick in her lungs to handle. But it’s not enough, she’s too slow, Snow’s closing the gap and Regina can hardly see the boy at all anymore, she has to go faster, has to pick up pace to match her heart and run, run _run_.

Stay.

Heart becomes instinct coiling tight at her core and she is well beyond merely trying to embrace it. She is Mother, in the making, as she sprints across the lane, hoisting her bag a little higher and it doesn’t _matter_ whether or not the people are loyal to her, or whether they’ve turned their backs on her. She is Liability, and Other, and risk is a choice she has learned to take in times where she really shouldn’t, her hood falling back, down and away halfway across the lane.

For the first time in the near two decades she and Snow have known each other, Regina thinks she finally might actually _hate_ her, and murder is not an impulse she ever wants to give into or feel again.

In, out, one foot in front of the other and everything burns, aches, begs for rest, relief but she doesn’t stop, in, out, in, forward, she can’t see the boy anymore and Snow’s nearly upon the cottage now, fingers flexing, curling in anticipation and shit, _shit_ , Regina has to act fast, has to _do something_ \-- 

“Snow!”

Snow halts at the sound of her name, spins around too-quick but Regina is _there_ , bag in hand, and their eyes meet, hold, linger just for a split second — just long enough for recognition to dawn in Snow’s eyes — before Regina’s drawing upon most of what strength she has left, lifting her bag as high as she can, and swinging with as much force thrown into it.

She should not get as much satisfaction out of the sickening _crunch-thump_ as she does when Snow’s body hits the cold, hard ground.

That’s about as far as Regina gets in reveling in the small victory she’s claimed because her grip on her bag slackens until it slips through her fingers and drops to the ground, fatigue twisting into pain all through her muscles. She hisses a little as she leans down to hoist the bag back up over her shoulder properly this time, breath heavy and bearing hints of a rasp. Snow’s not getting up any time soon — there’s a bruise coloring somewhere along the side of her face — but Regina knows there’s no time to waste. Swallowing down around the slight churning of her stomach, Regina straightens back up and turns her attention to the boy.

She blinks twice when she realizes he’s no longer alone. He’s taken to hiding behind the long, flowing skirt of a woman Regina assumes is his mother, eyes still wide as he looks up at her, but he’s stopped trembling, at least. Equal parts relieved and confused, Regina’s brow wrinkles as her gaze shifts up, finds another boy younger still curled up in his mother’s arms, face tucked against her neck, and then lands, locks eyes with the woman who’d arrived only _just_ in the nick of time to try and protect her son and… oh.

_Oh_.

“Regina!”

Regina looks away from the woman who’d denied her shelter but given her water, sustenance a couple of weeks ago, glances over her shoulder just for a split second at the sound of her name and that’s _Will_ , he’s spotted her, he’s coming for her, she can hear him urging the horse forward fast and hard. Breathless and out of time, Regina spins back toward the woman and her sons, braid whipping, falling over her shoulder as she meets the woman’s eyes one last time. “ _Run_ ,” she urges, strained and beyond desperate, and she can only hope the woman has enough sense to make the right choices quickly enough to spare her family the rest of Snow’s wrath.

Summoning energy she _knows_ she doesn’t have, Regina sets off running down the lane back in the direction of the Lucas’ cottage. There’s a cabin, three dwellings down, that has a porch, a set of stairs that should be enough for her to get a leg up as long as Will slows down a little, and has a strong, sure grip, because Regina knows her own limits well enough to know she’s well past them by now. At best this is going to be a near-miss, an exercise in patience and strength and coordination and trust but she does; above so much else, Regina trusts him— trusts every last one of them, and home cannot be lost to her when they welcome her back to it so willingly.

One last glance over her shoulder to gauge how far away the horse is and Regina adjusts her pace accordingly, cloak billowing behind her as she makes a break for the steps and narrowly dodges past two dwarves. Up a step, one, two, all the way across, turn and push off, up, arm outstretched and yes, _yes_. The breath that leaves her is heavy, relieved at the hand holding hers, gloves gripping hard as Will hoists her up onto the horse behind him. Her vision swims as her weight redistributes itself, snow and smoke and silver passing in hazy, shimmering streaks and gods, _gods_ , she’d forgotten how long it’s been since she was last astride a horse, shit.

It’s all she can do to lean forward and wrap her arms around Will’s middle, and the last vestiges of her energy go toward arching up to tuck her chin over his shoulder and turn her lips toward his ear. “Ride!” she shouts, fighting to be heard over the cacophonous chaos. “Go, fast, get the fuck out of here, _don’t_ stop!” Will leans forward in earnest, urges the horse forward, faster, _faster_ and this isn’t Penelope, the coloring’s all wrong. That’s as much thought as Regina can spare for anything that insignificant, though, because her stomach turns over again, more violently than before, and she’s pulling back and curling in to tuck her face against Will’s back, eyes squeezing shut against the new wave of nausea.

She’s not quite sure how long it is — approaching a half hour, maybe? — before Will starts to ease the horse (not Penelope, it’s a different horse, Regina hasn’t taken the risk to look just yet) out of the steady gallop and into a brisk trot. With her eyes still closed, Regina can feel the difference more than anything else. The wind isn’t such a sharp whistle in her ears anymore, doesn’t drown out the clashing of blades or overlapping of voices screaming for help— but then again, she can’t hear those anymore either.

Wherever they are, Will’s gotten her far, far away from the village.

Absent wind or blade or plea, the bloodrush pounding of her heartbeat in her ears becomes a damn near deafening roar once more. Even that, though, is beginning to fade with a little more time. Slowly, she feels it come back to rest in her chest, settling into a quiet, rapidfire _thump_ ing, and with it comes the receding of every other heightened, aching sensation. The slower pace has helped to smooth out some of the rougher parts of the ride, and in turn she finds the rhythmic rocking of dirt under hoof to be much gentler on her stomach. Well, that, and it helps that she’s not sprinting with sick in her lungs, and while she wouldn’t exactly call sitting astride a horse _rest_ , it’s at the very least enough of a reprieve that she almost feels human again.

Almost.

Still, fatigue seems to crash into her tenfold when she feels Will’s gloved hand tap gently against her own, and she’s fuzzier than she wants to be ( _sick_ , the back of her mind supplies, sounding suspiciously like Granny) when she mumbles a half-hearted _hmm?_ into Will’s shoulder. Will pries her hand away, just enough to press something into it— his waterskin, she realizes once she pulls back slightly and blinks blearily down at it. The corner of her mouth twitches into a smile and she murmurs a soft _thanks_ before opening it to quench her thirst.

It helps, it does, immensely so after how far she’s pushed herself in trying to escape the village, but it’s a pale comparison to the damn near royal treatment she’s received from the Lucas’ over the last two weeks. She hadn’t lingered after Red had brought her up from the cellar, hadn’t allowed Granny to apply another layer of oils or ointments before she left, and while the logical part of Regina knows that was the right choice, there’s a part of her that wishes time was a luxury she could’ve afforded, just this once.

She takes an extra pull or two from the waterskin before closing it up and half-blindly passing it back to Will. Her recovery will take longer, now that she’s without all of that, and there’s precious little to be had to take their place. A nice strong tea, perhaps, from Tuck’s collection, or a broth instead of a stew, if Alan has been fortunate enough to find decent ingredients at markets. It’s hard to allow herself the idle fantasy of anything more: she’s not sure where they’ve moved camp to, if they’re even still outdoors at all or… oh.

Oh.

_No wonder he wasn’t there when you went back_.

Maybe… _that’s_ the reason they left, in the first place. And if— gods, if that’s true, then he’s been d—gone far longer than Regina could’ve ever anticipated. If that’s true, then he hadn’t taken her advice after all.

He never even had the chance.

Her eyes slip shut again as ache swells, stings at her sternum, her forehead finding Will’s shoulder once more, and with freedom comes time that no longer feels like a luxury, but a price. She has nothing _but_ time now, and nothing to hold her focus or distract her from the cold, hard truth that she knows— she _knows_ , has accepted, but she hasn’t had the chance to let fully settle into her bones.

Robin is dead.

Three little words that aren’t a whisper but a fucking scream, echoing deep through the hollow of her heart; three little words that sting, burn tears at her eyes; three little words that are the antithesis of _I love you_ , and the scream doesn’t die in her throat but rips its way through her, wracking her form with tremors she longs to attribute to the cold. “Stop,” she chokes out, sob stuck halfway through her throat. “Stop, Will, stop, stop.” She lifts her face from his shoulder with a shuddering gasp, taps fitfully at his back in wild desperation and begs, pleads, “Stop, stop, _stopstopstop_ —”

Will tugs on the reins just a little too hard, brings the horse to a stop too-quick and has her grasping his cloak for purchase just to keep herself from falling. There’s a question falling from his lips— confusion, or concern, she’s not really sure and can’t really focus enough to find out. The very second the horse is stopped and steady, Regina dismounts clumsily, stumbles sideways once her feet hit the ground and struggles to draw in breath. Half-blind with tears she claws at the strap of her bag, fumbling to pull it up, over and off, and this time when it slips through her fingers she lets it fall, hit the ground with a quiet _thump_. Her bow and quiver are quick to follow but that’s the most she can part with: it’s too cold to take off her gloves or her cloak, threadbare as it might be, and these days she will only ever unfurl Robin’s scarf from around her neck to bathe and gone, gone, _gone_.

She can’t run, can’t sprint or even jog at this point ( _probably a good thing_ , the back of her mind supplies, and Granny has left her mark without ever taking a bite), but Regina moves as fast as her legs can carry her. Around a thicket, through a grove of trees, down a small hill into a clearing and she _cannot breathe_ , can’t see where she’s going, can’t stop because if she stops, then she falls, and if she falls then she’s no longer heart on two feet but what’s left behind, after the world has swallowed her whole. If she stops, the truth catches up with her and succeeds in hunting her down. If she stops, it’s almost as good as if she’d been reckless enough to let Snow find her, down in that cellar.

Almost.

She makes it halfway across the clearing — she thinks, anyway, her vision’s beyond blurry by now — before she finally trips over an upturned root. Her knees hit the forest floor too-hard on impact, startling the breath out of her, and she’s forced to use her hands to brace herself against the ground and keep from doubling over. She tries, fails to draw breath against the sick, is rewarded with nothing but a sucking gasp for her trouble. Her fingers curl, fist in the frosty snow, and the very second her eyes slip shut she’s shedding tears once more and stifling a soft sob into Robin’s scarf.

Robin is dead, and where time is a luxury that allows her to mourn, grief is the price she both possesses and bears.

Her heart rattles inside her chest with every sob that overtakes her, caged in the inbetween and bleeding at the front lines of love’s war against anger. Because she is— she _is_ still angry, still nursing her wounds over the way he’d hurt her, still disappointed that he’d allowed himself to begin to twist into someone he always swore he’d never be. And she knows, she _knows_ that’s what happened, she just doesn’t understand _why_ , and now she never will because he’s _gone_. She will never have a chance to get any sort of answers or apologies from him, will never have a chance to at least meet him halfway in trying to make amends, and it’s that, really, which feels downright crippling when she’s on her knees, and has her curling in upon herself and wrapping an arm around her middle, the other fisting in Robin’s scarf.

Because here, like this, the curve of her belly feels bigger than it did a couple of weeks ago, just barely, and it’s hard not to feel like anger is a _wasted_ fucking emotion when she harbors hope beneath her war-torn heart. This child will never know its father and that tears at her in places she thought she’d long ago buried ( _gods_ , she hopes the Merry Men were able to bury him, she doesn’t even want to _think_ about what Nottingham might’ve done if he’d—), but there’s so much _more_ to it than that. The chance to _be_ a father is one she thinks he _might_ have welcomed if the circumstances had been a little different; she’s never quite been able to suppress the surge of yearning that had swelled up in her at Yuletide last year, when she’d seen just how tender he was with Skip that night by the fire.

And while she won’t allow herself to feel guilt over it, she will own that there’s something admittedly… selfish, in all of her longing. With the exception of the time she’d lived in Sherwood, with the Merry Men (and maybe, the traitorous part of her heart whispers, the past two weeks, in the warmth of a small cottage in the northern outskirts), Regina has spent most of her life very much on her own, even when the people of Misthaven hadn’t been quite so terrified to be supportive of her.

It’d been Robin who had changed all of that. Robin who had been a goddamn thorn in her side with his quick hands and infuriating smugness. Robin who had shot an admittedly perfectly aimed arrow between her and Death’s door. Robin who had sparked something in her with a smile hidden behind a tankard. Robin who had sought her company when he had plenty elsewhere. Robin who had become her partner, and her friend. Robin who had earned her trust, and with it, her secrets. Robin who had seen _her_ and found something not just worth admiring, but protecting. Robin who had brought her into the fold, and let her make her own place among the rest of the Merry Men.

Robin who had _loved her_ , for the sum of all of her messy, broken parts.

Robin, who had kept her heart safe, and given her a place to call home.

She’d lost pieces of that when he’d broken her heart, but they were still salvageable — he still could’ve earned her trust back — and worth fighting for. Now what’s left of what they’d had together is nothing more than ruins, and Regina’s not sure she could cobble enough pieces back together to make anything close to resembling a heart capable of a love that strong. She curls in upon herself, unable to help crying a little harder, and against the firm press of her belly into her hand Regina feels grief and hope clash, and threaten to rip her apart.

Because _this_ is probably the biggest fucking tragedy of all: she has the chance to do what she thinks he needed— what she _knows_ he could, if given the chance. Each of them grew up with variations of what not to do, but where Regina has precious little to go on, Robin had more than enough. And in the wake of his descent into the shadow he’d strived for so long to walk out of, Regina still believes— believed him capable of rising up once more and stepping into the light of who he wanted to become.

Who he _was_ , even on his worst days, and Regina had seen _him_ , too.

Robin is dead, and Regina is never going to see him again.

She’s hardly aware that she’s become half-hysterical in the time she’d been curled up on the snow-covered ground, can barely register anything beyond the way her grief consumes her. Every breath she takes is harder than the one before, sobs seeping down into the sick in her lungs until she’s almost wheezing, tears dripping off of the tip of her nose and leaving her cheeks feeling raw in their wake. She doesn’t think she could stand right now even if she tried, could hardly see straight if she _wanted_ to move, to go back and find Will and fuck, fuck. Home is waiting for her, somewhere without roots and she cannot _breathe_ and she is all heart, bleeding out onto the forest floor and Robin is gone and still she loves him, loved him, _loves him_ — 

The lightest brush against her shoulder is enough to send pure panic lancing through her whole body, and the only thoughts that occupy her mind are _Snow_ and _run_.

She’s unfurling with a startled gasp and spinning on the spot on instinct, core coiling up tight in defense of her child, and her vision is still swimming with tears but her aim is true: her fist collides with whatever had been about to overtake her, and the damn near sickening _crunch_ that follows is enough to allow her to draw breath even as she loses her balance. Quickly, she wipes at her eyes with the back of her sleeve and rights herself a little, shifts to one knee and makes to push herself to her feet when Snow lets out a particularly pained noise, except…

Except that’s not Snow.

That’s not Snow, or David, or any of the guard. That’s not even Will, or John, or any of the other Merry Men.

That’s a dead man walking.

Breath seizes up like ice in her lungs, and her voice breaks down somewhere in the middle when she breathes, “ _Robin_?”

“Well I’m not Friar Tuck,” he mutters, hands cupped over his nose and mouth. “Bloody hell, Regina, I know I probably deserved that in some capacity but did you really have to hit me that fucking hard?”

“I thought you were Snow,” she says, and it doesn’t matter, this doesn’t make sense, she has to be fucking hallucinating right now because— “You’re dead. You’re— you’re supposed to be _dead_. You’re...bleeding.” It takes a second too long for that to sink in, that there’s blood all over his face, spilling into his gloved hands and _Nottingham got to watch him bleed_ fuck fuck shit.

“That tends to happen when someone punches you in the face,” Robin grits out, hissing slightly in clear pain when he adjusts his hands. “Fucking hell, Regina, I think you broke my nose.”

Her first instinct is to laugh, she can’t help it, this is fucking _absurd_ , but it never comes, overwhelmed by the impulse to help him because he’s still fucking bleeding and _Nottingham got to watch him bleed_. She digs around in the pockets of her tunic, her pants until she locates her handkerchief (finds herself grateful that it’s mostly clean, given how sick she’s been). Without a second thought Regina closes the distance between them and moves in close, ducks her head a little and manages to pry one of his hands away (and he is flesh and bone beneath these gloves and somehow, _somehow_ still alive).

It’s a little awkward trying to work the handkerchief beneath his nose — _gods_ , that’s a lot of blood — and tries to pinch the soft part of it closed. The hiss twists into a groan at her touch, has her pulling back slightly and giving him a few seconds before trying again. Another groan, this one rougher around the edges, but this time when she pulls away Robin replaces her hand with his and pinches in spite of the pain.

Definitely broken.

Regina shifts her attention elsewhere, curls her hand around to the back of his head and gingerly pushes it forward, just enough to keep the blood flowing out, rather than back in. There’s a whine on the tail end of every labored breath that comes out of his mouth, and when she shifts her gaze back to his face she finds him blinking blearily up at her, clearly disoriented. It takes a moment for him to really focus, but the very instant he does — the very instant blue finds brown and holds, locks, lingers — Regina’s heart beats without walls and damn near bursts out of her chest.

Robin is not dead.

_Robin is not dead_.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispers, voice still thick, unsteady with tears that panic denied.

He doesn’t answer her for a moment, clearly focused on trying to breathe even, deep with his nose pinched off, but it’s only a moment before he quirks an eyebrow at her— well, tries, anyway, and where his tone is derisive (she thinks, it’s kind of hard to tell) there is nothing at all unkind in his eyes. “Nottingham’s mouth ran that far north, did it?”

Regina’s brow knits in confusion. If anything, that just gives credence to what she thought she’d known, and that in turn just raises more questions. And then it occurs to her, half a moment too late, that he’d asked her a question himself, and while she doesn’t really have much issue with addressing it, she wants— _needs_ answers out of him, first, because _he’s supposed to be dead_. “Something like that,” she answers slowly, “but that’s not an answer. This doesn’t— I don’t understand how you’re alive.”

Something in his expression softens at that even as his face pinches in pain. “I could say the same about you,” he says. A beat, and then Robin’s reaching out with his free hand to tuck a stubborn stray lock behind her ear, and even through gloved hands, every last one of Regina’s bones practically shivers into the snow below. “When I saw how sick you were, I feared the worst.”

_That_ makes even less sense, and Regina’s eyes narrow in utter bewilderment. “How… did you know I was sick?”

He sighs, sort of — he’s clearly struggling with trying to accomodate a nose broken and bleeding — but she can see some of the tension melt out of his shoulders, feels the way his neck isn’t quite so stiff under her gloved hand. “It’s… a long story,” he offers after a moment’s pause, and the age-old instinct to _smack_ him rises up without further prompting.

She cannot believe she still loves this insufferable idiot.

(And he’s alive, alive, _alive_.)

“Indulge me,” she says, and it doesn’t come out as sharp as it probably should— that much is obvious from the little spark that catches in his eyes. “Right now, I think we’ve got nothing but time.”

To his credit, he doesn’t argue with her, but he’s unable to do little more than draw in a breath before there’s a sharp _snap_ somewhere around them. In tandem they look up at the noise: Robin muffles a pained sound at the motion, but Regina hardly spares him a second glance as she tilts his head forward again to help stem the bleeding. Slowly, she pushes herself to her feet, ears straining to pick up the sound again. For a long moment the forest is almost eerily quiet, save for the sound of their discordant, labored breathing, but another _snap_ breaks the silence, closer than before, and Regina’s whirling too-fast on the spot in the direction she’d heard it come from, vision swimming as she sways slightly on her feet.

His hand is gripping hers before she even has a chance to draw breath, and while it’s enough to steady her she can’t help the way her heart skips a beat when she looks down at him. “You alright?” he murmurs, only half-able to meet her eyes with her handkerchief still pressed around his nose.

Regina swallows hard but nods before looking away again, and it’s stupid to be grateful for a distraction this potentially dangerous but she is, she needs this, if only for a moment or two more, to grant her a reprieve from the way her world shifts once more— ground solid beneath her feet, and breath easily drawn beneath an open sky. Another _snap_ , this one closer still, and the way she squeezes his hand in its wake is nothing short of involuntarily. Her other hand twitches on instinct, ready to reach back and grab— 

“My bow,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on the spot where she thinks something approaches, “and quiver, I left them with my bag next to… Rocinante,” she realizes, glancing sidelong at him as the pieces start to fall into place. “It wasn’t— I thought it was Will who spotted me, back in the village, but it was you.”

“It was bloody mayhem back there, and to be fair you did think I was dead,” he reasons, gritting his teeth against renewed pain as he tries to sit up a little straighter. “Use mine, here—”

“I’ve got it,” she says, pushing at his shoulder to keep him on the ground as she steps around him to remove his own bow and quiver from his back. It’s more than a little awkward: there’s no way to pull the strap of his quiver up and over his head without causing him more pain, but they manage. It takes her a bit longer than usual to get a feel for the bow — his is bigger than hers, and she hasn’t had to use her own in weeks — and she’s not particularly… confident in her ability to land a shot on the first try right now. Not that she doubts her skill, on the whole, but she’s out of practice, and she _has_ been sick, and spent a good while sobbing before he’d followed her out here.

Still, of the two of them, she’s the better shot at the moment; she’s not even sure he’ll be able to stand on his own for a while, frankly. And right now time is not theirs to use at their leisure but something to be fought for, in the face of a future uncertain. In, out, and Regina takes a few steps across the clearing back in the direction of the sound, snow crunching slightly beneath her boots. In, out, and she reaches back to draw an arrow from Robin’s quiver, wincing against the sting of skin stretching where her bruise is still healing. In, out, and even with her (his— their) weapon at the ready, Regina doesn’t take aim quite yet. In, out, feet crossing as she creeps closer to the treeline at the bottom of the hill, and Regina keeps herself firmly in the in between.

Right now, she might be the only thing that can _keep him_ alive, and Regina will be damned if she lets fate take Robin from her now.

She’s less than fifty feet from the treeline when another _snap_ startles the breath out of her, has her halting in her tracks and another, another, her hands are shaking even as she takes aim, pulls the string of her (his) bow back and _snap, snap, snap_ — 

A blur streaks through her vision, left to right across the snow and the bow shifts, follows it a split second too late, _snap, snap, snapsnapsnap_ and then a shadow finally emerges from behind a bare yew tree and that’s… not Snow. Not Snow, or David, or any of the guard, not even any of the Merry Men.

That’s a wolf.

And Regina— Regina knows those eyes.

The wolf approaches her cautiously, leaving tracks in the snow, but it comes to a halt just at the base of the hill and meets Regina’s eyes. Slowly, she lowers the bow, exhaling slowly as tension melts out of her muscles. “Regina,” Robin says, voice strained as he struggles to keep his voice calm, level and somehow still quiet enough not to provoke the wolf. “Regina, I know you’ve been ill but you do realize that’s a wolf, right?”

The brief flare of irritation gives way to something warmer when the wolf tilts its head slightly in its study of her, and Regina knows— she _knows_. “Not a wolf,” she calls back faintly, corner of her mouth quirking up into a reluctant smile as she meets the wolf’s eyes. “A friend.”

A beat, and then the wolf is taking a step forward, consumed all at once by a plume of purple smoke. Regina _does_ startle at that but only a little. She’s far too conditioned by her experiences with magic to think all that well of it, but it’s nothing compared to the (not all that unreasonable) way Robin reacts, gasp sharp and piercing across the clearing. “The _fuck_ is going—”

The smoke clears faster than any fire would ever allow, and where the wolf had once stood Regina finds Red in its place absent her crimson cloak, shaking her hair out over her shoulders as she settles back into human skin. “ _There_ you are,” Red sighs, wobbling a little as she tries to regain her footing. “I could smell the blood three hills over, I was worried that— I’m just glad it’s not you.” She stops, a good six feet away, teeth digging into her lower lip as her gaze flits between them for a half moment. “Who is that?”

Regina spares him a half-glance over her shoulder, sees the way he stops, halfway to his feet, holds her gaze and then settles back down, letting her take the lead. “That’s, uh, that’s Robin Hood,” she says, and it’s a damn near thing that she doesn’t actually laugh this time because this is _ridiculous_ , this whole entire world is fucking _crazy_.

Predictably, Red does a bit of a double take as she looks back over at him, brow knit in clear confusion as she tries to make sense of that. “You look pretty good for someone who’s supposed to be dead,” she remarks, and it’s casual, she’s playing it off as casual for Robin’s sake, Regina knows, but there’s no mistaking the question in her eyes.

“Thanks,” Robin says, dry and altogether quizzical. “I much prefer the fist to the face, given the choice.”

Red hardly misses a beat, and there’s a slight note of pride in her voice when she turns to Regina and asks, “You _broke his nose_?”

“Not… on purpose,” Regina sighs, depositing the arrow back in the quiver and hooking the bow on her back. “But that’s not— Red, what are you _doing_ here? Where’s Granny?”

“She’s okay, she’s safe,” Red reassures her, hastily taking a few steps forward. Again, she stops, this time a few feet away, clearly unsure of where this is going. “The men that rode into the village— I assume they were yours?” she asks, shifting her gaze to Robin briefly. “One of them helped me get her up onto his horse, he said something about a rendezvous point. I figured you’d know what that meant, once I finally found you.”

“You followed me,” Regina says, and there’s an edge in her voice she didn’t intend, one that has Red shifting uncomfortably where she stands. “You got Granny out safe, and then you fucking followed me, _why_ did you—”

“You attacked the queen!” Red snaps, voice pitching unusually high. For a good half moment Regina finds herself at a loss for words: she’s struck a nerve, she realizes, if Red’s this close to losing her composure. “You attacked the queen and then you ran, and I didn’t know if anyone was watching you or was going to follow you and I just— it was my choice,” she argues, shoulders slumping a little. She’s quiet for a good long moment as she tries to collect herself, in, out, hands settling at her hips and lips thinning into a line. “I wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to _you_ ,” she says at last, her tone brooking no argument. “Not if I could do something to prevent it.”

Regina’s heart flutters, skips in her chest at the turnabout, and there’s nothing for it but to shake her head and try, fail to fight against the small smile that blossoms across her face. “And Granny thinks _I’m_ stubborn.”

Red visibly relaxes at that, somehow manages to look equal parts bemused and stern (and there’s the family fucking resemblance, goddamn) as she shakes her head and closes the distance between them. “Like I said,” she says, sounding far too pleased with herself, “you’re never going to win a fight with me.”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Regina chuckles wetly, hands hooking over Red’s shoulders when Red gathers Regina up in her arms. A beat, and then, lips turned toward Red’s ear, “Please don’t ever grow out of that.”

Red quirks an eyebrow at her when she pulls back, lips twisting into a smile. “It’s a good thing Granny wasn’t here to hear you say that. She’d probably call you a terrible influence, and she actually _likes_ you.”

“Who says it’s not the other way around?” Regina throws back. To that, Red only offers up a grin, wolfish and wide, and Regina has to force herself to look down and away, lets her gaze fall to where their gloved hands are hooked together, fingers just shy of being intertwined.

Her family, it seems, is becoming so much _more_ than Regina ever could have dared to wish, hope, dream or dare for growing up in the orphanage.

Her life does not have to be spent alone.

“Regina?”

She inhales sharply, startled back into focus at the sound of Robin’s voice and alive, alive, _alive_. With one last squeeze, Regina lets go of Red’s hands and sniffs a little to keep her composure before turning back to face him. “It’s fine,” she assures him, making her way back across the clearing to where he’s still sitting, handkerchief held against his nose. “Red’s not going to eat you, don’t worry.”

He doesn’t seem entirely convinced when she kneels down next to him again and gently pries the handkerchief away to see if he’s stopped bleeding. He’s clearly still wary of the wolf even when it’s not present; that much is obvious by the way his eyes fixate on Red as she follows Regina across the clearing, doesn’t even look away when Regina touches his nose experimentally and he actually _whimpers_ from the pain. “You’ll forgive me,” he grits out, “if I find that a little hard to believe.”

“Be nice,” Regina admonishes, unable to help sounding a little sharp. She reaches for the waterskin fastened at his hip and opens it up to clean up the handkerchief a little. “I wouldn’t be here without her.”

_That_ gets his attention, and there’s something altogether tender in his expression when he shifts his gaze to her once more. “Seems like I’m not the only one who has a bit of a story to tell here.”

“Not here,” Regina argues with a sigh, gripping his chin gently and using what she can of the handkerchief to wipe some of the blood from his face. “We’ve left Rocinante alone too long, and I don’t know how far we are from the village. There’s no guarantee we’re safe out here in the open. Rinse,” she instructs, passing the waterskin off to him. He’s a little clumsy as he pours the water into his mouth, careful not to touch his lips to the opening, and gives it a good swill before spitting blood onto the snow.

( _Nottingham had watched him bleed_ , and alive, alive, alive.)

“We’re definitely over the border,” Red says from above them as Robin pours water onto his gloves to rinse off some of the blood, “but Regina’s right— we’re vulnerable out here. We should meet up with the others, or at the very least find some cover before it starts snowing again.”

It’s a testament to the time they’ve spent apart, Regina thinks, that Robin once again doesn’t argue. “Alright,” he groans, bracing a hand against the ground to help push himself to his feet. “We can— _shit_.”

She was right: he’s unsteady on his feet, looks about as dizzy as some of her worst spells, and even though it’s several days old the snow doesn’t give him the traction he needs to stand on his own. He’s blinking blearily and tipping forward before he can finish, and Regina’s to her feet and in front of him without a second thought. Her hands find his chest on his way down, press, push firmly to keep him upright. He’s reaching for her before she can even draw breath or brace herself against the added weight, hands curling around her forearms, but they balance, hold for a few long seconds to make sure they’re both steady. “You okay?”

“‘m fine,” he murmurs, blinking a little like he’s trying to orient himself. “Could use a stiff drink to help take the edge off a bit, but I’m alright.” His gaze does settle, land and lock with hers again, but given the way his grip on her arms tightens she’s not sure he realizes that it’s a lie. A beat, and then, “Incidentally, d’you know there are two of you at the moment?”

It takes far more effort than it should not to laugh at him but Regina manages, even if she can’t quite bite back the amused grin that blossoms onto her face. “Okay,” she sighs, tapping his chest gently to try and shift some of his weight. “How about we let Red help you back to Rocinante, yeah? And you let me take the reins?” Robin nods but it’s… distracted. He can’t quite seem to focus, eyes roving over her idly from temple to lips to eyes and back again.

Then he smiles, a soft, tender thing tinged with that same sort of disoriented detachment, and Regina’s toes curl in her boots. “What?”

Robin merely shakes his head but his smile doesn’t fade, eyes still wandering over her. “Nothing,” he says, even when it’s clearly not. “It’s just…” Whether he’s lost the thought or is searching for the right words or has gotten distracted, Regina will never know, because he’s releasing one of her arms and reaching for her with very little hesitation, gloved hand curving, cupping, cradling her jaw with clear affection, and she _cannot breathe_. “It’s nice to see you smile again, that’s all.”

Regina knows then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that beneath all of that yearning is remorse, simple and plain, and that means exactly three things. Fate has been kind enough to give them a second chance, whole and ready for the taking. Regina has the opportunity to pay it forward in the wake of the apology she knows will be given freely, from the depths of Robin’s heart, and _that_ means…

Robin loves her still, and Regina had taken more with her when she left than she realized.

Slowly, Regina reaches up and gently pulls his hand away, but she doesn’t let go, not yet. “We need to get going,” she murmurs, gaze shifting briefly to the few spots of blood still spattered along his lower lip. “You wanna tell me where the rendezvous point is so I can get us there?”

Robin shakes his head again, but he looks reasonably more coherent than he did a minute ago. “No point,” he says, words coming out a little clearer. “They’ll have moved on by now.”

“Okay,” she sighs, striving to be patient with him. “Then where are we going?”

“Camp,” he says, like it’s obvious, and she knows it’s the injury talking, knows he’s not deliberately being vague just to irritate the shit out of her but _gods_ if it doesn’t strike all of the same nerves.

Red, however, has no stake in maintaining the fragile peace the two of them have managed to make, and where Regina forces herself to bite her tongue, Red (blessedly) does not. “Yeah,” Red drawls, drawing the word out and prompting Regina to glance at her over her shoulder. “You’re gonna need to be a little more specific than that if I’m supposed to help get us there. I can track well enough but any chance I had of following Granny’s scent was gone as soon as I decided to follow Regina out here.”

“It’s… where it’s always been,” he says, looking a little confused when Regina turns toward him again. “In the heart of Sherwood Forest.”

“I thought… you left,” Regina says, and it takes more effort than she’s proud of to not accuse him of lying because they _had_ left, she knows they did, there was hardly anything fucking left when she went back all those weeks ago.

Again, Robin shakes his head, but there’s something almost… tentative in the way he considers her, like he’s trying to choose his words very, very carefully here. “I told you,” he says, but it’s kind, nowhere near malicious, “Sherwood is where we’ve made our home. And if we _were_ to pull up roots and move elsewhere, even temporarily, we’d do it as a family.”

In the absence of the apology she knows he’ll eventually offer, Regina hears the words Robin leaves unspoken: _we would never move on, without you_.

She’s not sure which impulse is harder to resist: pulling him into a kiss, or punching him square in the face again.

For now, she does neither, and instead resigns herself to getting both answers and an apology once all three of them are safely out of these woods, and back in their own. For now, Regina is content to lace her fingers with Robin’s, and finally allow her heart to begin to thaw. “Come on,” she prompts, gently tugging him forward to where Red stands ready and waiting. “Let’s go home.”


	8. Chapter 8

It’s hard not to remember the last time she’d traveled this path.

She can still remember the burn in her legs with every begrudging step she took forward, can feel the phantom of pinpricks against her skin as snow soaked her boots, her clothes. Can still feel the vestiges of sick clinging to her, stinging in her chest and hovering somewhere in the middle even as it works its way back up and out, instead of digging deep down into the depths of her lungs. Still feels out of her skin as it stretches, curves, and her heartbeat flutters out of time with another.

Beneath her, snow crunches, breaks from the inside out beneath Rocinante’s hooves, and for every _crack-snap_ that indicates their path forward there’s another to match it. Softer, and muddled, and occasionally accompanied by a high-pitched yip as the wolf— as _Red_ follows, pawing a mess in the tracks they leave behind. Regina catches a glimpse of her as they round a tree, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth when Red dives face-first into a pile of snow and proceeds to roll down the gently sloping hill Regina guides Rocinante down.

Robin’s arms tighten around her, settle just beneath her breasts when Rocinante loses his footing slightly on a steeper, slippery patch of snow, and the breath that tumbles out of her at the touch is enough to jolt her into the present entirely.

A month ago, she was still in denial about being attached to the life growing inside of her. A month ago she wouldn’t have hesitated to sink an arrow into the chest of a wolf. A month ago, she’d walked into what she’d thought were the ruins of a life she wasn’t sure she was meant to live. A month ago, all of the evidence pointed to betrayal of the worst kind— to abandonment by the only people who had ever come close to being considered family.

A month ago, Death had followed her around like an overbearing shadow, and against the ice melting around it her heart thunders rebelliously in its wake now.

Robin pillows his cheek against her shoulder and mumbles something soft, unintelligible. This time the smile is harder to fight, has her digging her teeth into her lower lip in an effort not to laugh. “I’ve got it,” she reassures him.

“We close?” he murmurs, sounding… not sleepy, but still sort of disoriented.

“Almost to the spring,” she says. “I… can have Red take our things down into camp, if you need a few minutes.”

“Mmmkay,” he sighs, a non-answer at best, and the flare of irritation that rises up is extinguished almost instantly when he curls a little tighter around her, hands drifting dangerously close to the growing curve of her belly.

A month ago, she’d traveled this path with every anxious intention of telling him the news, and time hasn’t made the prospect of it any easier to face.

She still has no idea how she’s going to tell him.

She’s spared having to think about it for the time being by Red bounding several feet in front of them, nose tilted up as she sniffs the air around them. “Water?” Regina guesses, calling out to her, and the slight tilt of Red’s head in her direction is all the answer she needs. “We’re nearly there. You can shift back— we’re deep enough into Sherwood that we shouldn’t have to worry about covering our tracks from here on out.”

The cloud of purple smoke plumes far quicker than Regina had been anticipating, has her inhaling sharply and tugging on the reins a little too hard in the face of magic manifesting before her. She’ll get used to it, she knows she will, but the sight is still enough to provoke panic in her— to paralyze her with memories of flames threatening to lick her skin, and the vice-like grip of Snow’s hand squeezing around her heart, darkness dancing around the edges.

Robin lifts his head from her shoulder and leans in closer still, lips grazing her ear. “You alright?” he asks, soft and low and far more coherent than he was a minute ago.

Regina shivers, she can’t help it, she goddamn shivers at the skin-on-skin contact, light as it might be, and it takes far more willpower than she’s proud of to resist leaning back into him, but she does relax once the smoke clears and leaves Red standing ahead of them on the path, human from head to toe. “Fine,” she breathes, but she sits up a little straighter all the same, forcing him to pull back and away enough to give her the space she needs. “Down to the right,” she says, shifting her attention back to Red. “Around that rock formation that looks like it leads into a cave.”

“Looks like?” Red echoes, jogging ahead a little to round the corner. A beat, and then, “ _Oh_.”

Regina slows Rocinante to a stop just as they approach the spot where Red disappeared. Robin relaxes his hold on her but doesn’t pull away, just squeezes her elbow in clear affection fuck, _fuck_. She can hold out a little longer— _has_ to hold out a little longer, because she’s not doing… this, whatever _this_ is, without both feet on the ground and at least _some_ sort of explanation from him first. Still, she doesn’t exactly pull away, either— doesn’t tense, or shiver, or turn into him the way she really wants to. Instead, she turns her attention to Rocinante while they wait for Red’s return, hand rubbing idly along his neck while she murmurs approvingly into his ear.

“That’s so misleading!” Red says, voice growing louder as she makes her way back to them. “Is that why you set up camp back there?”

“Certainly part of it,” Robin grits out, shifting slightly behind Regina as he prepares to dismount. “Though there _are_ caverns beneath the nearby stream somewhere, I think. Farther southeast, closer to the coast, though we’ve never managed to find them— _shit_.”

Too late, Regina whips around to look at him, eyes searching, falling to where he’s dismounted. The tension in her chest unfurls as quickly as it coils tight when she sees Red’s hand on his arm, keeping him steady, upright. Regina can’t help but worry her lip between her teeth, though, at the sight of him still so disoriented. They should stop for a while— have Red take their things back to camp, maybe even walk Rocinante over to the stables on the far side of the spring.

It takes him a good half-moment to look up at Red properly, and he fails rather miserably at masking his surprise. “Are you close?” Red asks. “To the coast?”

He’s quiet for a few beats too long, eyes drifting to where Red’s still got a firm hold on him. Regina bites back the _be nice_ that bubbles up in irritated indignance and... okay, maybe she’s being a little unfair. She was just as wary, when Granny told her, but she trusts them. She’d implied as much in the clearing earlier, she doesn’t understand why can’t he just _trust_ her— 

“Closer than you were,” Regina answers for him, shifting to dismount without really thinking it through. “Still a good two or three days traveling in each direction, though.” Red’s free hand is held out in offering before Regina’s feet even touch the ground, and Regina’s finds it with practiced ease, a ripple of the comfortable rhythm they’ve found over the last two weeks.

“Oh,” Red says, a little fainter than Regina’s used to. “That’s okay, it’s just— I’ve never been this far east before.”

“Mostly cliffs, this far north,” Robin says, and he tries, Regina thinks, to be gentle about the way he pulls his arm out of Red’s grasp. “Beaches are farther south. Takes a good week to get all the way out there.”

“You’d like it better out west, anyway,” Regina says, and the way Red’s hand curls away from Robin doesn’t escape her notice. “There’s a huge marketplace, right on the harbor. You’d love it.”

It works: Red is full on _grinning_ when she turns toward Regina again. “Let’s… not mention that to Granny yet,” Red mutters, squeezing Regina’s hand before letting go and moving around to Rocinante’s far side. “One adventure at a time, yeah?” She reaches out to unfasten Regina’s bag where it’s tied up but stops, starts a little and takes a half-step back when Rocinante huffs out a harsh, unhappy little noise and stamps anxiously against the snow.

Oh.

_Oh_.

“Easy, boy,” Regina murmurs, petting soothingly at his neck again. “You remember her, yeah? She followed us all the way down here and you weren’t scared. It’s okay.”

Red takes a tentative step toward him again, smile tight around the edges as she tugs her glove off and holds a hand out in offering. Rocinante turns toward her and sniffs slightly before shaking his head and stamping at the ground again, side-stepping closer to Regina. Again, Red curls her hand away, closer to her chest this time, and the look in her eyes is too familiar for Regina to feel anything but ache. “I’m… sorry,” she tries. “He’s not usually like this—”

“It’s fine,” Red dismisses, but it’s not, Regina _knows_ it’s not, fuck, fuck, shit.

“There’s an apple,” Robin interjects after an awkward silence, “in my saddle bag. Not his usual variety, but he might warm up a bit if you offer it.”

Red’s gaze shifts between them, back and forth, but it’s not until Regina nods in encouragement that Red steps forward one more time. She’s slow, deliberate about the way she undoes the straps of Robin’s bag, hesitating every time Rocinante shifts nervously, but he doesn’t make too much of a fuss this time, and Red seems to breathe a little easier once she’s got the apple in her hand.

“Green?” Regina inquires, arching an eyebrow over at Robin.

“Long story,” he sighs, leaning against the nearest tree.

“Where have I heard that before?” Regina mutters, and even as she turns away she catches the phantom twitch of a smile playing at Robin’s lips at her reply.

(Not yet.)

Red’s stepped closer to Rocinante again, hand held out in offering once more, but he’s less hesitant about sniffing her out this time. That, Regina finds less surprising: he’s a sucker for extra treats— apples or a handful of grain or… almost anything, really. The apple’s caught his interest, even if he prefers the reds to greens, the way she does, and the way he noses at Red’s fingertips is far more in character for him— gentler, and a touch over-eager.

The apple’s gone within half a moment, at most, and the immediacy with which he’s stepping into Red’s space and sniffing her out for more is enough to make her smile again. “Hey there,” she laughs, squirming as he noses obnoxiously at her waist. “Alright, apples are your thing, noted.”

“Red ones, in particular,” Regina teases.

“That just means he has good taste,” Red returns easily, and it’s light but there’s something altogether softer in her eyes in place of the earlier hurt.

Brighter, and just shy of glowing.

The ache in Regina’s chest gives way to warmth, and it’s impossible not to smile when she looks over her shoulder at Robin again. There’s something almost… curious, in the he’s watching them, but when Regina mouths _thank you_ at him Robin only shrugs in reply.

Only now, when she really allows herself to _look_ at him, does Regina notice how tense he is. He looks… uncomfortable, leaning against the tree, can’t seem to stop shifting or to settle in for a spell. There’s a hard edge to his jawline, like he’s gritting his teeth against pain, and, well. The bruise beginning to color the center of his face isn’t all that unlike the one she’s been sporting for weeks, too-tender to the touch.

He should really have someone take a look at his nose.

“We should start heading in,” Regina says, holding Robin’s gaze a little longer. “I could tell it was going to snow again, back in the village. It looks like it’s coming in from the east. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started up again before sundown.” She pauses, just long enough to watch the way Red scratches softly at Rocinante’s nose, before venturing, “He might even let you walk him to the stables.”

“Yeah?” Red muses, leaning in a little closer. “What do you say, big guy? I can walk you home, get some of this heavy stuff off of you, see what sort of snacks they’ve got stashed away in there?” She gets a soft whicker for her charm, another when she takes hold of the reins, and while Regina knows it’s mostly the food that’s won Rocinante over, she can’t help but remember the way Granny had all but praised Red’s ability to be persuasive and wonders how the rest of the men will take to her.

What Regina wouldn’t give to see Will Scarlet try to take on Red in a fight.

She’s snapped out of her idle musing by Robin’s hand at her elbow again, but the touch is brief, fleeting, and he’s moving past her to follow Red through the curving rock archways to the place their spring is tucked away. Regina brings up the rear several feet behind, but she catches up to him rather quickly, considering how spent she is from her sprinting earlier. He pauses, halfway through the secret passageway, to lean against the wall and rub his temple, face pinched in pain.

He should probably sit down for a spell, once they reach the stables. Camp’s not all that far from the spring, but she can’t imagine any of them will be left alone for a good long while, once they descend into the fray. Delaying their arrival affords Robin the opportunity to let the pain ebb a little and Regina, well. She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous about seeing the men again, which— It’s silly, she knows, they came for her after all. They followed Robin’s lead and sought to bring her home safe but…

She didn’t just leave Robin behind, that day, and she owes them an apology as much as Robin owes her one.

One she knows she’ll get as soon as they’re alone, and if she sends Red ahead of them into camp and stays with Robin at the stables, Regina thinks they could finally make one final crack in the ice.

She reaches for his hand half out of habit and slots their fingers together with practiced ease, but only when he meets her eyes and squeezes her hand in return does she move forward.

With home on the horizon, Regina leads, and Robin follows.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“You know,” the girl— young woman muses next to him, “Granny can help set that for you. Your nose?”

Robin spares her a half-glance while he hangs up the bridle and reins in the stable they’ve built for the horses atop the hill outside of camp, but that’s the most attention he’s willing to give her directly. It’s damn near impossible to tear his gaze away from where Regina is draping a blanket over Rocinante’s back, and it takes Robin three tries to hang the damn bridle up without looking. “Is she… like you?” Robin ventures. “Your grandmother?”

“Yeah— well, she was,” the woman— Red amends as she hoists Rocinante’s saddle up onto the rack for him. “She can’t shift anymore, like I can, but I bet she can still track better than most of your men.”

That… doesn’t make him feel that much better, honestly, but he manages a tight smile in her direction. “I wasn’t aware that werewolves were experts on healing,” he counters, doing his best not to sound too flippant and only half-succeeding. It’s not— she’s sweet, this girl, and she clearly cares for his (hopefully, still his girl). While she hasn’t exactly given him any reason to think she’d do either of them harm, he doesn’t think it’s all that unreasonable to be wary of what she can do— of what she _is_ , in her blood.

Gods, what sort of dire straits must Regina have been in to end up in the company of werewolves, much less trust or befriend them?

“ _Be. Nice_ ,” Regina says thinly, narrowing her eyes as she passes over his quiver and bow. “I _told_ you I wouldn’t be here without them, why can’t you just trust—” She cuts herself off abruptly, teeth digging into her lower lip as she looks down and away, and Robin feels the sting of just how much he’s hurt her more acutely than he has in weeks.

Regina trusts them, and that has to be enough.

He cannot afford to be proud.

“There’s a difference between being an expert and having experience,” Red reasons, and while there’s a slight edge to her tone, it’s also altogether quite composed.

_That_ gets his attention, and he allows himself a moment, at maximum, to meet her eyes. He was not _half_ so poised at that young of an age (though he’s not quite sure how young she actually is, but that matters less); hell, he’s not even that poised _now_ , and there’s something to be said for a shapeshifter having more patience than most. “I… suppose there’s truth to that.”

Red simply stares at him for a moment, clearly trying to feel him out, but the tone of her voice does not change. “When we first start to shift, it’s a lot harder to control,” she explains. “Granny lost count of how many broken bones Daddy ended up with over the years. I’ve broken my nose _twice_ in the last year,” she says, a little wry. “We heal fast— she didn’t have much choice other than to figure out how to set what we broke. Trust me, you’re in good hands.”

He shifts his gaze back over to Regina, who’s suddenly become very interested in the tassels at the edge of Rocinante’s saddle blanket, but he doesn’t miss the way her lips curve up into a bemused little smile. “I’ll, uh, I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmurs, tension unspooling in his chest at the sight.

“You should go,” Regina ventures, a soft, gentle thing as she looks up in Red’s direction. “I’m sure Granny’s worried sick about you. You should let her know you’re okay. Camp’s just down the hill, you just need to follow—”

“I can find it from here. I’m sure I’ll be able to pick up her scent soon,” Red assures her, but she makes no move to leave and leans against the frame, arms folding over her chest. She’s quiet for a half moment, eyes roving over Regina’s form carefully. There’s something in the way Red looks at her that makes Robin feel almost… not unwelcome, exactly, but definitely like she views him as the outsider, here.

In a way, Red’s gaze seems almost… protective, and for a second Robin has the mad thought that this girl considers Regina part of her _pack_.

Okay, maybe Regina hit him harder than he originally thought.

“You staying up here for a bit?” Red asks, still unmoving. Robin shifts his gaze back to Regina just in time to see the way she glances sidelong in his direction, but she stops just shy of actually catching his eye. She doesn’t meet Red’s gaze either though, when she turns toward Rocinante once more, and it’s petty but Robin takes comfort in that— in the fact that Regina is clearly calling the shots on what _she’s_ comfortable with right now.

Regina nods in reply, back to toying with the tassels on the saddle blanket. Red doesn’t question it, just pushes away from the frame and holds out a hand expectantly. “Hand me your things,” she says. “I’ll carry them down for you.”

Regina obliges, but Robin doesn’t miss the way she winces when she hoists her bag up from the ground— or the way Red hovers too close, before stepping back. Envy coils tight and low in his belly, and the very second he’s aware of it, envy gives way to shame, and in the empty space between them Regina’s words are like an infinite echo all around.

_I wouldn’t be here without them_.

Fuck his bloody pride, honestly.

“It should be Alan, at first post,” he says, setting his bow and quiver down next to his saddle bag. “He shouldn’t give you any trouble if you know him by name and let him know we’re up here.”

“Alan,” Red echoes, slinging the strap of Regina’s quiver over her shoulder. “Cute smile, keeps a musical pipe on hand?”

“Yes,” Robin affirms slowly, unable to mask his surprise. “How did you—”

“He’s the one who helped Granny up onto his horse,” Red explains. “He should recognize me, yeah?”

“Probably,” Regina agrees, passing off her bow, and Robin doesn’t miss the way her lips twist into the phantom of a smile. “You’re kind of hard to forget.”

“Yeah,” Red says, smirking a little as she shoulders Regina’s bow with ease, “though I guess that won’t make me a very good thief, will it?”

Robin can’t help but arch an eyebrow at the implication — it’s a bit… bold of her, quite frankly, to act under the assumption that they’ll be staying indefinitely — but it’s hard to even consider the possibility of refusing them sanctuary when he sees the way Regina smiles, properly. It’s enough to settle some of his nerves and relax him enough to lean against the nearest post. “Probably not,” Regina says, sounding almost bemused, “but you might make a pretty good distraction.”

“Maybe I should put that to the test,” Red muses, and she is not at all subtle about the way her eyes dart between them, clearly curious, cautious. “See how long I can keep them occupied, if you want a little time before you head down. Just don’t stay out here too long, okay?” she ventures, voice soft. A beat, and then she’s taking a few steps forward and reaching for Regina’s arm, squeezing gently. “Even if it weren’t going to snow, it’s still freezing out here.”

“How would you know?” Regina counters, but it’s still light, teasing, has something pleasant twisting in him at the sight of her so at ease.

Red merely levels a look at her, lips pursed and for a second she looks astonishingly authoritative— motherly, in a way someone her age (he really should ask after that, before the night is over) probably shouldn’t. “Your face is flushed,” she points out, “and _you_ are still sick. I think Granny packed some of what was left of her medicine chest but it’s not— It won’t be like it was,” she says, voice growing a little faint. “Just… head back before sundown, okay?”

Regina nods and sidles back up to Rocinante, smile softening around the edges when Red reaches out to scratch lightly along his nose. She lingers for a beat or two before leaning in and murmuring something near Rocinante’s ear. Given the quizzical quirk of Regina’s eyebrow when Red pulls away, Robin gathers that Regina hadn’t been able to make it out either. Red doesn’t give her an answer though, just shakes her head and smiles, gives Regina’s arm one last squeeze before pulling away.

Robin’s gaze falls to where his bow and quiver are still propped up against his saddle bag, and while he’s glad to have them on hand, he can’t quite help the way his stomach flips anxiously at the sight of Red heading for the hidden path to camp with Regina’s things. It’s necessary, he knows — they need to talk, he and Regina, _alone_ , but if by some horrible chance they were followed on their way back into Sherwood, he thinks their best first line of defense just disappeared into the treeline and… oh. Well then.

Perhaps trusting werewolves isn’t quite as difficult as he’d anticipated.

Trusting Regina is as natural as breathing by now, and he will not let his bloody fucking pride doubt her ever again.

With a sigh, Robin turns his attention back to her as soon as Red is out of sight— and, hopefully, out of earshot. Regina shivers and it’s such a small thing, barely noticeable at all but _everything_ about her is like sunlight right now, bright and glaring and catching his eye even with how disoriented he still is after she’d clocked him square in the nose earlier. It’s impossible for him _not_ to notice the way her skin has tinged pink with the sting of cold — Red was right, she really shouldn’t be out in this weather much longer, especially given the fact that she’s _still_ sick, after all this time — and she’s not nearly as subtle as she probably thinks she is when she curls slightly closer to Rocinante in search of warmth. Only now, though, in the sudden stillness they find themselves absent the chaos from earlier, does Robin take stock of her attire and fixate on the tattered edges of her cloak, the too-sheer fabric well beyond the point of being threadbare and worn.

She _still_ hasn’t replaced the damn thing, even with one snowstorm after another rolling in, and while Robin can’t exactly blame her for that — he’s almost certain she hasn’t had the means or opportunity — the sight of it is enough to stir up a shimmer of a memory he longs to forget.

A memory he wishes he’d never made— a memory, he knows, would never have been made in the first place, if not for his own damning pride.

He cannot change the past, and before him his heart beats alive and well.

His hands are reaching for the fastening of his cloak without a second thought as he takes three long strides across the makeshift stables toward her. She starts, only a little, when his fingertips brush against her shoulder, but relaxes again almost instantly, eyes following his hands as he tugs his cloak off and wraps it around her shoulders. He’s slower about fastening the clasp, unable to help lingering a little longer now that he’s able— _allowed_ to touch her, even with all of their layers.

It’s too long for her — the edges catch, pool, fan against the hay at their feet — but she doesn’t shiver again. Still, she doesn’t move to grasp the fastening herself until after Robin’s pulled away, her eyes downcast. She’s… quiet, uncomfortably so, and while Robin’s not exactly expecting something as trite as a _thank you_ here, her silence is a stark reminder of how much damage he’s inflicted.

Forget indulgence— he owes her answers, at the very least, regardless of how receptive she might be.

This too, is his to break, and with it his pride, to burn.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tobias Wright.”

The question that had been building in her chest dies in her throat, brow knitting in confusion as she looks up at him. “What?”

“The answer to the question you’re trying to figure out how to ask,” he says, and the brief flare of irritation in Regina’s chest blossoms out until it becomes something altogether far too longing for her to deal with right now. “Tobias Wright, Tah—”

“—Tahlia and Skip’s father, yeah, I know,” Regina says, curling her fingers into the material of his (blessedly warm) cloak. “What about him?”

The breath Robin takes is short, shallow, like the words are sticking in _his_ throat now— like it’s fucking _painful_ for him to give her the answers she deserves, even when he’s the one offering them up before she even had the chance to ask. The warmth in her chest coils, clenches tight, unfurls again almost immediately with the next breath he takes, and the place where anger and affection bleed together echo the beat of her heart in her chest. A breath, a beat, and then, “He was sent to the front lines.”

“What? _Why_?”

Again, he hesitates, but it’s brief by comparison, just long enough for her eyes to flick, follow the quiver of his Adam’s apple when he swallows down hard. “Their family couldn’t keep up with Prince John’s tax hikes.”

The memory comes back to her in fragments: a setting sun against a winter unseasonably warm; _there’s talk_ and _Mama’s been going to market more_ and _they worry less_ ; a young girl’s fingers carding gently through her hair. Tahlia’s words had pierced Regina’s armor until she’d cracked, crumbled open like the bleeding heart she is, and in their wake Regina had been left with nothing but fragile tendrils of attachment in the making, and a longing deep in her belly that she’s never quite been able to shake.

It has been a year, and Regina is meant to be someone’s mother.

Fuck.

It’s her turn to swallow hard against the implication Robin’s left hanging in the air, but there’s more to this he’s not saying, she knows— she _knows_. “When was this?”

There’s too much knowing in his eyes for her to feel anything less than dread in anticipation of his answer. “The day before you left. And… you and I both know that man is not a soldier, Regina.” A beat, and then, “You and I both know he’s not coming back.”

She’s taking a step back, away before she can really even think it through. The hard truth of it is almost worse, in some ways, than the nights she spent half-freezing to death. Colder, and sharper, stinging to the point of biting at her skin. Too-quick, Regina brushes by him, feels his eyes on her all the way to the edge of the stables. She reaches for the nearest post, hand curling in tandem with that same warring, bleeding heartbeat, eyes squeezing shut, and it’s only when the wood emits a soft squeaking groan that she realizes she’s gripping too-tight.

Fuck.

_Not a soldier_ is such a basal, diminishing way of looking at it— not that Robin’s wrong, exactly. Tobias was never one for confrontation, could never quite get the hang of a bow and didn’t have the stomach to handle the sight of blood. But that’s— none of that was who he _was_ at the end of the day. He’d been earth, in the garden, provided day in and day out from farm to table, to Amelia’s stand at market. He’d been air, in the forest, beneath Tahlia’s wings, and fire, in their shelter from storms, against his son’s beacon of light.

Gentle, and soft-spoken, and kind, and in lieu of silver to fill the royal purse Prince John, it seems, had deemed Tobias worthy, if only to strip him of his heart until there’s nothing left but bone.

Roger Lucas had deemed Regina worthy, and her child will have what Tahlia and Skip have lost.

It’s hard to stomach, the thought that Tobias might already be dead, but Robin is right. That man is not a soldier, and it’s harder still to imagine that he might still be alive after ten weeks at the front lines and oh, oh.

_The day before you left_.

The pieces flash to the forefront of her mind like lightning: _this isn’t going to be enough_ , and the way he’d bristled, snapped when she’d called him out on not stepping up to take care of the others; _losing our roots_ and the gentle, tentative admission of fear at the prospect of failing those he’d long ago sworn to look after; _we’re not going to just up and leave when we feel like it because that’s not what family does_ , and the fact that they’d _stayed_ , after all this time, and had refused to move on without her.

_There’s so little I can really give you at the end of the day_ , and every last one of them had charged headfirst into fire to find her, and ended up saving at least half of a village in the process.

All at once, Regina understands: she is not the only one here with blood on her hands.

Except… that’s not even close to the truth, and where she should be angry she finds she’s nothing less than full of ache.

She knows him far, _far_ too well.

“I just— I can’t help but feel responsible, for that. I didn’t do enough to prevent it from happening,” Robin ventures after a few long moments of uncomfortable silence. Regina’s eyes snap open with all of the force of thunder at the confirmation. The charge sparking under her skin still isn’t anger but vehemence of a different kind and _gods_ , this would be so much fucking easier if she could just be flat-out angry with him.

She turns to look at him, hand gripping the post just a little bit tighter. “You say that like the expectation is that you’re supposed to lead some sort of… uprising against Prince John. But that’s not… what this is. That’s not what you— what _we_ do.”

There’s something altogether pained in the way he meets her eyes. “Isn’t it though?” he argues, bitter and strained. “Regina, I’ve committed treason against the crown so many times at this point that I’ve lost count.”

“So have all the others. So have I,” she counters, trying and only half-succeeding at not snapping at him. “If not against Snow then against Prince John, or vice versa, or both. But no matter how supportive people may have been of me in the past, there sure as hell aren’t many now, if any at all and—”

The words stick in her throat at the reminder, each memory like bile on her tongue: shut out in the bitter cold by a mother left to her own devices; a clutch of books, a chipped teacup, a well-loved ragdoll missing an eye; ice around her heart shattering in the wake of a child’s harrowing scream.

She needed to be a little reckless, she supposes, in order to be _brave_.

“We never did it because it was what they asked for. We do it because it’s what they need— because you _wanted_ to help, Robin. But it doesn’t matter whether or not the people are willing to support us, or our cause. You know that— you’re the one who reminded _me_ last year, remember? And it doesn’t… matter what they believe,” she says, unable to help the way her voice tapers off toward the end. “I never had any delusions about usurping Snow’s throne, no matter what rumors she’s tried to spread over the years.”

“You say that like I do,” he says, and the urge to smack him is back in full force at the assumption. It’s quelled quickly though at the clear confusion in his expression— at the flash of hurt in his eyes and _gods_ , she is really, really not in the mood to have her patience this fucking tested right now.

He’s such a goddamn idiot, and she loves him, loves him, loves him.

_Alive_.

“No, you don’t,” she insists, somehow managing to keep the edge out of her voice. Releasing her grip on the post, she slowly steps back into the stables. “That’s my _point_ , Robin. Maybe one day, if things get bad enough, if there’s real talk of a rebellion against Prince John’s crown—”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Robin mutters, rolling his eyes. It’s his turn to reach for the tassels on Rocinante’s saddle blanket, rolling the threads between gloved fingers. “It was never really his to begin with.”

Reigna stops in her tracks, halfway across the stables, forces herself to take the breath that starts out sharp and make it measured. He’s being petulant — he _knows_ he is — and it is taking far, far more patience and willpower to resist outright snapping at him than she thinks it should right now. “ _If_ it comes to that,” she says again, leveling him with a _look_ when he glances over at her tentatively, “ _all_ of us are going to have to figure out our place in it.

“But… right now? Your place is with your family,” she says, too-soft, and the only thing keeping her from rubbing idly at the curve of her belly right now is the way his eyes find, lock with hers. “With us, and with the people you’ve committed treason for just to keep their hope alive.”

It’s _you give them hope_ all over again, nearly a year apart, and spirits take on a whole new meaning in the wake of winter’s bitter cold.

“Except… hope clearly isn’t enough anymore, Regina,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to the tassels once more. He reaches for them again and then stops, flexes his fingers and seems to think better of it. It’s his turn to brush past her too-quick and it leaves her spinning on the spot, fumbling a little as she reaches for his arm and just misses grabbing hold. She starts forward to follow him and then… stops when she sees the way _his_ hand curls around the same post hers had just a few minutes ago.

He’s _trying_ , and that alone is enough.

“If— if I’m failing at that,” Robin ventures, his voice softer still, and they’re close, Regina thinks, so goddamn fucking close to getting to root of this, “then… what are we— what am _I_ even doing anymore?”

_Oh_.

Regina is not the only one, it seems, who’s had a little trouble finding him.

The wound she’s been nursing breaks open anew, and for a moment it’s as if she’s sitting in the middle of camp all over again, watching his walls go up. She remembers the way he’d pulled away from her and out of her touch, feels it in the echo of a sharp inhale in her lungs. She sees it in him, too, in the lines and slouch of his shoulders and still, _still_ she wants to reach for him, even after all of the fucking pain he’s caused her.

After the line he was never supposed to cross, and if he’s going to come back from the place he’d been lost, Regina cannot walk away again.

He has to be the one to come home.

_Home_.

Swallowing hard, Regina blinks in an effort to ebb the tears welling in her eyes and clutches the edges of Robin’s cloak tight. “What you’re _doing_ ,” she says, struggling to keep her voice even, “is leading your men into unfamiliar territory to try and protect people from someone who could kill every last one of you in a heartbeat. You had no obligation to those villagers,” she reasons, and it’s Granny she thinks of first— of a medicine chest and a son long ago buried, of secrets beneath the ground and a safe place to land when Regina had none.

Red is the phantom of fingertips along the curve of her belly, and with Robin’s back to her and her hands hidden beneath his cloak Regina indulges, just for a half moment, in allowing herself the comforting touch. “You had no obligation to them. There was nothing to be gained from it, riches or otherwise, and you did it anyway. _That_ is what you do, Robin.”

“You’re missing the point,” he snaps, and she can’t help but flinch at the echo of that day. “None of what I do matters anymore, because none of it is ever going to be enough—”

“ _Stop_.”

He clams up again almost instantly and glances carefully at her over his shoulder. Most of the tension melts out of him the second his gaze lands upon her — she is damn near _shaking_ , she’s so fucking angry with him right now — but it’s not until he turns all the way around again that she sees clarity dawn in his eyes. “We are _not_ doing this again, just… stop.”

Part of her is honestly kind of glad she’s already broken his nose— it’d be really fucking hard to resist the temptation right now if she hadn’t.

_This isn’t going to be enough_ , she’d insisted, and no matter what her intentions had been that day, Regina finally realizes that she is not the only one who walked away that day.

She had hurt him, too.

Gods, what a fucking mess.

The breath he takes is audible even several feet away and he’s _trying_ , he’s _alive_ and he is _trying_ not to make the same mistake twice. He leans back against the post, hands tucked behind him and leaving him almost… vulnerable.

_Exposed_ , the back of her mind supplies, and somewhere in her Regina knows that he had loved her— loves her _still_ , for seeing his heart even when he could not.

“D’you know,” Robin mutters, scoffing slightly low and under his breath, “Amelia Wright won’t _speak_ to me, since Tobias was sent to the front.” A beat, just long enough for his gaze to shift past her, toward the place the path leads down into camp, and then, “She won’t let any of us see the children.”

Regina’s fingers curl, clutch fitfully at her tunic in an effort not to lay a hand on her belly, and being turned out into a fucking blizzard in the name of protecting children is nothing, _nothing_ , she thinks, compared to the coiling instinct— to the sheer and utter _fury_ that flares up in her core at the thought of misplacing blame taking priority over protecting the lives of innocents.

Her earlier desire to murder Snow with her bare hands doesn’t seem all that surprising, anymore.

“Then Amelia Wright needs someone to give her some fucking perspective,” Regina bites out, “because I’m pretty sure without our aid her son would have _died_ last year.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes when his gaze shifts back to her, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, lost to the way he looks down and away, twisting the toe of his boot against crunchy, days-old snow. “That… doesn’t bring Tobias back,” he murmurs, and she knows— Regina fucking _knows_ he’s just repeating whatever Amelia must’ve spat at him when he’d gone to see her.

Amelia Wright is not an unreasonable woman, and Robin is right: Tobias is not coming home.

“For _fuck’s_ sake,” Regina breathes, hands settling at her hips in an effort to keep herself centered. “You’re as bad as she is. You are not responsible for Prince John’s actions any more than I am for— for Snow’s,” she says, faltering over the final words and oh, oh.

_Oh_.

It’s like getting swept out by the tide at the coast: unanticipated, and alarming, and altogether freeing— _weightless_ against the waves, until she’s faced with the choice to be swept under and sink, or swim.

She’s been treading water for almost ten years in an effort not to choke on the blood Snow has spilled. Maybe… it’s high time she let go and swim back to shore.

_Home_.

“That’s not the same,” Robin says, shaking his head a little. That— the fact that he’s fucking _arguing_ with her, still, for whatever stupid fucking reason, should be the thing that makes her blood boil, but it’s not. It’s the way he won’t meet her fucking eyes while he does it, and Robin of Locksley may have been a fucking coward but Robin Hood is not. “I could’ve done something, done _more_. If we’d— if I’d given them more, Tobias never would’ve been sent to the front.”

“And if I had kept my mouth shut, we wouldn’t be here right now,” she says pointedly, arms folding over her chest and he _still. won’t. fucking. look at her._. “You don’t get to throw a double standard at me with this. I didn’t kill James, or the King,” she says, and even as the words are coming out of her mouth they’re still difficult to wrap her head around.

Robin is not the only one who’s been guilted out of his own skin, and enough is _enough_.

“I am not the one using magic to force someone to do my bidding, or to wipe out entire villages,” she adds, and that’s… easier. That’s on the other side of the line she is not willing to cross, and her heart beats rebelliously in her chest against the darkness in Snow’s hands. “You have not been the one raising taxes, Robin. You’re not the one drafting soldiers to die senselessly in a war no one is going to win. You didn’t send Tobias to the front— Prince John did,” she says, and it’s softer, more emphatic than she thought it would be.

It gets him to look up at her, though, and all at once Regina feels most of the tension melt out of her.

_Almost_.

Suddenly _exhausted_ , Regina blinks back tears once more, and the closest she’ll allow herself to come to touching her belly openly is to wrap both arms around her middle. “Trust me, I had to learn this the hard way,” she breathes, not bothering to try and suppress the resentment in her tone. “You… _can’t_ save everyone, Robin.”

It’s as good as if she’d smacked him, the way his whole expression shifts and his shoulders sag with weight, but it’s not until he sinks down onto a nearby hay bale that Regina recognizes it for what it is: one last crack in the ice.

Robin exhales heavily and runs his fingers through his hair, head hanging low between his arms. He makes to run his hands over his face and then stops just short of actually doing it, clearly having forgotten that she _broke his fucking nose_. He grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes instead, just for a half moment, before propping his head up on his hand. “I know,” he says, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear him.

And then he looks at her, really, _really_ looks at her, open and unassuming and full of warmth, and Regina has to dig her teeth into her lower lip to keep from letting the tears spill over right then.

Alive, alive, alive, and she knows— she _knows_ he loves her still.

“I know,” he says again, but there’s a hitch in his breath where there wasn’t before, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I want to.”

The breath that tumbles out of her comes second only to the few tears that finally fall. It’s frighteningly familiar, the sight of him like this, but for the first time all afternoon it doesn’t at all remind her of the way he’d shut her out the day she left. It takes her a half-minute to piece together why— to watch him look away and tug off his gloves, to listen to the gentle, trickling hush of the spring just beyond the stables. To let _not enough_ sink in down deep until it dredges up a memory not quite three years old that had changed her life— _their_ lives, entirely.

_Why do you need to be someone else_? she’d asked, in lieu of the one she had not yet been brave enough to venture— one she thinks Robin heard anyway, that day by the river.

_Why isn’t who you are enough_?

In the heart of Sherwood, Regina looks at Robin and finds hers at last.

It’s equal parts impulse and instinct that have her crossing the stables again in four great (too-long, too-quick) strides, tugging off her gloves and sinking to her knees next to him without a second thought. Her hand settles on his with relative ease, warm and gentle, and she doesn’t miss the way his breath hitches in surprise at the touch. “ _There_ you are,” she breathes, lips curving into a faint smile when he meets her eyes again. “I wondered where you’d gone. And you think _I’m_ all heart on two feet.”

Robin relaxes almost instantly under her touch, breath coming out slower, more even. The look in his eyes is so, _so_ familiar — he loves her, still, and _gods_ , she’s missed waking up to this in the morning — but it’s not the thing that catches her off guard. It’s the way light lifts the lines in his face, a little at a time, and glistens off of the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. And somewhere in her Regina knows that this is relief— _gratitude_ for seeing him when he couldn’t, and for the words she’s left unspoken.

_You_ are _enough_.

And then Robin’s eyes flick down, just barely, and Regina’s heart stutters in her chest.

He wants to kiss her.

She _wants_ him to kiss her.

She is nowhere _near_ ready for it.

Pulling away from him is harder than she’d anticipated, her fingers flexing, fidgeting anxiously at the loss of contact. The light doesn’t leave his eyes but it’s hard not to notice the way he falters at her withdrawal. A wrinkle forms above his nose as he watches her movements cautiously, sits up a little straighter when she pushes herself upright and takes a step back.

If there’s any hope of piecing back together what he— what _they_ had broken, he _has_ to meet her halfway.

She’s getting her goddamn apology first.

“It’s not an excuse,” she says, wrapping her arms around her middle again. It takes her two tries to swallow around the sudden lump in her throat, fresh tears stinging at her eyes and threatening to fall. “There _is_ no excuse for what you did, for what you _said_ , for acting like—”

“—like a jackass, I know,” Robin sighs, rubbing idly at his temple.

“Like your _father_ ,” she counters, surprised not by how firmly it comes out, but by how _easily_ the words come to her. The memory of that day by the river is suddenly crystal clear: _you left Locksley because that’s not who you wanted to be_ and _that had more to do with my father than anything else_ and Robin’s hand gripping hers, several feet above the water. “And do _not_ sit there and try to convince me otherwise, Robin.”

“I… wasn’t going to,” he replies, equally firm but still too-soft. “But it’s not fair to hold him accountable for my actions— especially when it’s my own expectations I’ve failed to live up to, Regina.”

Her heart flutters at that, vindicated and proud over _accountable for my actions_. It’s a step in the right direction but it’s still not an apology, and even if it _was_ , it wouldn’t mean anything. It _can’t_ , not if he’s still looking at this in absolutes, and _why_ is a question whose answers are never immutable. “And yours are tailored based on what his were, Robin,” she argues, shifting her arms so that they’re folded over her chest instead.

“I don’t want to excuse—”

“It’s not an excuse,” she says, not for the first time, “but it’s not that simple. Holding yourself accountable doesn’t change the influence he had over you. You can’t measure yourself against the expectations of someone who isn’t around to see whether or not you live up to them. Believe me,” she mutters, derisive and dry and fuck, she _wishes_ she could feel her— their child move right now. “If I’d done that, I’d’ve failed before I ever drew my first breath.”

Honestly, she probably already had.

Robin isn’t fooled, not for a single goddamn second, and Regina’s heart skips a beat at the reminder that he has always seen _her_ , too. “You and I both know that’s not true,” he murmurs, and Regina’s toes curl in her boots.

She’s not ready to kiss him yet. She’s not, she’s not, _she’s not_.

“There’s no way to ever know that for sure,” she points out needlessly, and it’s a little… petty, perhaps, to resort to bitterness just to prove her point, but it’s a scar she’ll gladly swallow if it means getting them on the same page at long last. “But you? Everything you _are_ is nothing he ever wanted you to be and... the more you try _not_ to be him, the more you end up like him.”

That gives him pause, has his expression growing muddled as he mulls over her words. There's something idle about the way he moves— the way his fingertips graze along his side like he’s touching glass, dip beneath the collar of his shirt to toy with a chain looped around his neck. Like he's… searching, reaching for reminders— for something tangible to reconcile failure with truth. “I… never really thought of it that way,” he admits.

“I know you didn’t,” she says, unable to help the way her voice strains, grows tight, pitches a little high. The scar rips open until it’s a fresh wound again, bleeding, and bleeding, and her whole body feels like it sinks into the ground as her arms slacken, shift until they’re wrapped around her middle again, squeezing too-tight. “You… _broke_ my heart,” she breathes, on the brink of tears again, “and I _still_ missed the hell out of you.”

For the first time in well over ten weeks, there’s a flicker of hope in Robin’s eyes, and rather than love being a luxury Regina can only think of it now as _mine_.

Her heart has always belonged to him.

His mouth twists, teeth digging into his lower lip in an effort to bite back the closest thing to a smile she’s seen from him since the clearing earlier. It has her curling her toes in her boots again, heart skipping a beat at the familiarity of it and _not yet, not yet, not yet_. “Even when you were so angry with me?” he murmurs, and there’s a levity in his voice that wasn’t there before.

All of the air leaves her at once, pain bleeding out with the breath, and she’s verging on tears, voice thick again when she answers him. “Why do you think it hurt so much?” His shoulders fall, any last trace of his smile disappears, and even before he swallows Regina knows exactly what he’s going to say.

All at once, she finds that she is decidedly _not_ ready to hear the words _I’m sorry_.

Not yet.

“Do you want to know what the worst part of it is?” she asks. Robin raises his eyebrows, clearly curious, but the apology that had been ready and waiting on his tongue never comes. Which— that’s what she wanted, what she needs, right now, but it also means it’s her turn to provide the answers and… time has not made the prospect of giving voice to the bitter truth she’d begrudgingly swallowed any easier.

A bitter truth that had her denying her heart for _weeks_ the luxury of hope, and _mine_.

“You were right. No, you were,” she insists, arms unfurling from around her middle when he inhales sharply and makes to protest. “You _were_ right, because I— I’d forgotten what it’s like to be… alone,” she admits, voice tapering off a bit. Robin softens at that, and it’s not pity in his eyes but empathy where he didn’t have it before, the day she left and oh, _oh_.

Robin has always seen _her_ , too, and for the first time in what feels like… forever, Regina finds that she wants to truly _hide_.

They can’t afford for him to look through her right now.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in her throat, Regina forces herself to look away and paces idly across the length of the barn, back and forth and over again. “I’d forgotten what it was like to be alone, and I wasn’t prepared for this winter either and I couldn’t find real shelter and I ended up getting sick. I mean, obviously, so what would I know about taking care of a company of grown men, much less a child, when I can’t even take care of myself?” And that’s… _worse_ , she realizes belatedly, to say it out loud, to give validity to the venom he spat at her that day and fuck, fuck, _shit_. Shit, why did she have to be made like this, why did she have to be so _fucking_ proud, it makes her just as bad as him and fuck, fuck, _no_. No, she’s not going down this path again, she’s not letting the worst of either of them dictate their path forward, not when she’s escaped and he’s _alive_ and—

“Is that… something you were thinking about, before you left?” Robin ventures from behind her, startling her out of her spiral. “Us… having a child together?”

Regina stops dead in her tracks at _child_ , chest seizing up tight and oh, oh.

Whatever the plan might have been, it certainly wasn’t this.

She has run out of time.

It takes far, _far_ more effort than she’s proud of to remember how to breathe— to turn around and look him in the eyes, after that. But she _does_ , her gaze settles on where he’s still perched atop the hay bale, but she falters, just a little, at the way he’s leaned forward in the meantime, expression more open than it’s been all day— than it was even before she left. Hope flickers low in her belly, a persistent, calming little reminder that Robin _isn’t_ the man his father was.

Forget remorse, or apologies, or forgiveness: at the end of the day trust had been an easy thing to break, but never something that could be burned.

“No, I wasn’t. I mean, I _have_ ,” she answers finally. The admission catches them both off guard: she sees it in the way his expressions shifts, eyes growing warm, feels it echoed in the flush of heat in her cheeks. It’s like catching his eye through fire all over again— like the last year almost never happened, and the surge of yearning she’d buried down deep is now a heart barely beating in her belly. “I have, but not— I wasn’t considering it seriously,” she amends, because _that_ , at least, is still the truth. “Not with the way we live out here.”

Robin’s brow wrinkles at that, eyes narrowing in clear confusion. “I… don’t understand, then,” he ventures, suddenly sounding tentative again. “What does that have to do with—”

“Gods,” Regina mutters, shifting her gaze upward for half a moment while she tries to pull herself together, striving to be patient with him. “You really are an idiot.”

“That’s not fair,” he protests, and okay, maybe not that tentative after all. He’s already rising to his feet when she looks back down. “I was only trying to—”

“Robin,” she says, a firm, still-gentle thing, but it’s enough to make him grow quiet, face softening around the edges as he relinquishes the lead to her again. Hope lodges itself in her throat and pushes her feet forward until she’s standing in front of him once more, and after six long weeks since she’d first put the pieces together herself, Regina puts her heart out in the open, and _trusts_. “I’m pregnant.”


	9. Chapter 9

Regina reaches for his hand, her skin still just as startlingly warm as it had been a few moments ago. She hesitates but only barely long enough to let the words linger in the air between, and then she’s pulling their clasped hands beneath his— their cloaks. The hem of her tunic hits higher than he’s used to, enough so that she doesn’t really need to adjust it much before she’s pressing his palm over her middle and that’s… different, the gentle curve there, firm and low and oh, oh.

_Oh._

Pregnant, she’s— that’s… his. She’s... carrying his child.

His _child_.

_Fucking hell_.

It hits him like a punch to the stomach— not quite like the blade Nottingham had nearly run him through with, but it steals the breath from Robin all the same, leaves him a bit… dizzy, vision swimming on the spot. Maybe that part of things is more to do with his injury but that’s hardly important right now, a bloody fucking broken nose. That is his _child_ , beneath Regina’s skin, and though there’s still a layer of linen between them Robin’s fingers linger upon the curve of her belly before he sinks back down onto the hay bale, the movement causing his hand to slip out of hers.

For a moment, he finds he cannot quite look her in the eye, and rather than anger, or frustration, the bile on Robin’s tongue tastes an awful lot like shame.

He can feel her eyes on him.

Ten weeks, she’s been gone. He’s not an expert on this sort of thing, by any means, but it’d certainly _felt_ like… more than that, against his palm. Which, of course it is— it has to be. Their… child (gods, that’s going to take fucking ages to get used to, shit) had been conceived before she’d packed up and left. How long before is the real question at hand. Not… terribly long, he supposes, though she’d felt too-thin in his arms atop Rocinante on the journey home. From the sound of things he gathers that she had trouble finding much by the way of game or fruit. It makes sense that she’d be smaller than perhaps she should by now.

How the babe’s survived this long while Regina’s been in such dire straits, Robin will never know.

Regardless, Regina had been pregnant, the day she left— the day he’d broken her heart by shutting her out and refusing to listen to good sense and oh, _oh_. “Did you know?” he asks, blinking up at her as he tries to put the pieces together. Her brow knits, eyes narrowing in confusion at the question. “Before you left,” he clarifies, “did you know you were with child? Is that— fuck,” he breathes, reaching up to pinch his nose before remembering that she _broke_ it. He runs his fingers through his hair again and swallows hard, forcing himself not to look away. “Is that why you were so adamant about finding better shelter for the winter?”

It’s nothing short of a goddamn miracle that Regina— that _both_ of them have survived this long; his bloody fucking pride nearly got them killed.

Gods, he really doesn’t fucking deserve her forgiveness after all of this, does he?

Given the way her whole face falls, Robin thinks maybe she’s at least somewhat inclined to agree. “Unbelievable,” she murmurs, shaking her head slightly. “You’re just— of course. Of _course_ that could be the only reason I’d insist on finding better shelter for the winter,” she bites out and oh, _oh_. That’s… not quite what he’d been expecting. It’s angry, certainly, but there’s something else there too, beneath it that she doesn’t give him time to try and figure out. “That’s the only reason I’d be so stubborn about it, because I couldn’t possibly care about the rest of them men, because they’re not my _family_ , right?” she says, bitter and indignant and she is _provoking_ him into a goddamn fight, what the fuck is— oh.

_Oh_.

That’s… more than anger, he realizes— that’s _hurt_.

Fucking hell, he cannot seem to stop hurting her even when he’s not trying to— even when he’s _avidly_ trying to make amends for it.

To apologize for breaking her heart.

Right now, it seems, she doesn’t want hear it. “You are so fucking unbelievable,” she mutters, taking a step away from him. “Do you even realize— Fuck, Robin, what would that _say_ about me, if I’d left knowing I was pregnant? What kind of person would that make me? I mean, for _fuck’s_ sake, do you really think that little of me?” she says, and it’s not so much a question as it is a challenge.

She’s spinning on her heel and stalking out of the stables toward the spring before he can even _begin_ to think of a way to answer that. But the sight of her back— of her _walking away from him again_ is not one he ever wants to even so much as entertain ever again, and Robin is to his feet and following after her before he can really think his words through. “That’s not what I meant,” he insists, to no avail, and his temper flares up, lashes out before he can stop it. “Can you not do that?” he snaps, encouraged by the way she stops in her tracks again, halfway to the spring. “You have a horrible tendency to assume too much without much to support it—”

“—and you are too _thoughtless_ when you speak sometimes,” she spits back, braid whipping over her shoulder as she spins around to face him and oh, oh.

The sight of her crying again, properly this time, is enough to halt _him_ in his tracks, a good ten feet away, and guilt is a shadow that swallows him whole.

He wonders if this is what it feels like, when the queen’s hand wraps around a heart.

Regina had been right — the harder Robin tries not to be his father, the more he ends up like him — but it’s only a partial truth. Some things he’s held onto for far too long, bad habits and foul temper and all, and those are bridges Robin has to burn if he’s going to build one back to her.

And she’s alive, alive, _alive_.

He’s closing the gap between them without a second thought and it’s impulsive, he’s too goddamn impulsive for his own good right now. But… Regina doesn’t so much as _flinch_ when he reaches for her and cups her face with his still-bare, too-cold hands. She doesn’t lean into him, but she doesn’t pull away and it takes him half a moment to realize why. Each fresh tear that splashes onto her cheeks, spills, grazes against his fingers is like the sharp, jagged edges of her shattered heart, and it is not up to her to fix what he had broken.

It’s a challenge, but not a provocation— to put his money where his mouth is, so to speak, and be the man they both know he can be.

Gods, how he’s missed her fire.

“I know,” he says, sweeping his thumbs across her cheeks to wipe away some of the tears.

“ _Do you_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he promises, a gentle, fervent thing, “but… _this_?” He drops his gaze — it’s… different, like this, he can’t quite see the same way he could feel, before — and slowly moves one of his hands down to the curve of her belly. “Grant me a little grace here, Regina, alright? You’ve just told me I’m to be a father,” he breathes, swallowing hard before lifting his head to meet her eyes again. “Give me some time to wrap my head around this, yeah?”

Everything about her just… softens, at his request; he can feel the tension melting out of her, doesn’t miss the way her chin’s stopped quivering. The tears are beginning to ebb, even if they haven’t stopped altogether, and Robin breathes a little easier.

It’s— he understands why she’s as defensive as she is. She’s more than earned it, and she’s right, he doesn’t fucking think things through enough half the time. But he’s trying, he is, and they cannot afford for either of them to put up walls now.

As quickly as she’d put them up, Regina takes her walls back down. She’s surprisingly gentle in the way she pulls his hands away from her face, her middle, and there’s something almost… tender about the way her thumb rubs in circles against the center of his palm.

Gods, he hopes she loves him still.

Grace granted, Robin squeezes her hands in equal affection before releasing her and taking a few steps back. The heel of his boot collides, catches against the bark of a fallen log they’ve fashioned into a makeshift bench of sorts, and it’s here he chooses to take the moment he so desperately needs. Sinking down on top of the wood he exhales heavily, reaches up to pinch his nose and realizes his mistake a split-second too late, unable to help hissing in pain.

He’s far more important things to worry about than a broken nose at the moment, but fuck, if this doesn’t hurt.

His nose is still throbbing when she settles down next to him, but she’s quiet for a full minute before she speaks again. “I… didn’t really have a plan going into this,” she admits, sniffing a little and angling her body toward his until their knees touch. “I thought— I wasn’t really sure how you’d react. It was just… easier,” she says, softer than he thinks she intended, and the way her fingers dig into the bark doesn’t escape his notice. “It was easier to be defensive than disappointed.”

“Disappointed,” he echoes. “Because… you think I might be? And you’re not?”

A beat, and then she’s quirking a funny little smile at him that has his heart flipping five times over. “Honestly, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it, too. I’ve spent most of the last six weeks trying not to think about it too much but… I didn’t fight so hard to stay alive just for me.”

Six weeks, and a gauntlet of blizzards, and _Snow_ , and Robin doesn’t think he could love her more if he tried.

Gods, he wishes he could kiss her.

“Because you want this,” he prompts, shifting slightly closer until their thighs touch. “You said, before, that you’ve thought about it.”

Her smile softens around the edges, cheeks flushing slightly and Robin realizes, belatedly, that she’s stopped crying at last. “It was kind of hard not to, after Yuletide last year.”

Guilt cloaks itself around him at the memory — he cannot think of that sweet little boy anymore without feeling responsible for what happened to his father, even with Regina’s insistence that he’s not to blame — but it’s lifted almost as soon as it settles. Regina _is_ fire, burning bright, and not all of his memories of that evening are tainted: the lilt of her voice and quirk of her smile against Tahlia’s smart mouth; the quiet patience in the wake of Skip’s boundless enthusiasm; the twist of longing in his chest to match that which he’d seen in her eyes, through the firelight; the heat of her all around him, when she’d taken him inside of her at the end of the night.

A kiss fervent, and full of home, and the reverent way she’d touched the one real gift he’s ever been able to give her.

Heart in his throat, Robin dips his fingers beneath the collar of his shirt and toys idly with the chain of her necklace. “I know the feeling.”

“Yeah?”

He nods, twisting the chain around his finger, but the ghost of Tobias Wright hasn’t faded into the background, not entirely. The lump in his throat beats in echo of the door Amelia had all but slammed in his face, and for the first time all day Robin feels acutely just how cold the air really is. “You were right, though,” he murmurs. “It’s not exactly fair to bring a child into this… sort of life.”

“And yet here we are,” she sighs, nudging his arm companionably. He smiles at that, a faint, barely-there thing that has her faltering as well. “I didn’t know,” she says, quiet and even. “I promise, I didn’t know I was pregnant until weeks after I’d already left camp.”

He reaches for her on instinct, hand hovering over her knee for half a beat before settling, but they’re past the point of needing permission, he thinks— at least for this. “Why didn’t you come back, once you did?” he implores, unable to help the way his voice turns thin, reedy.

“I _did_ try,” she insists, and _she’s_ trying, he realizes, to not be immediately defensive. “You were all gone. The camp was broken down, there was hardly anything left.”

“Earlier, you said you thought we’d left,” he says, remembering the surprise in her expression when he’d told her Sherwood was still home. The twist, release, repeat of the chain around his neck is idle now while he tries to help her put the pieces together. “When was this?”

“I don’t know,” she muses, brow wrinkling a little. “A month or so ago, give or take?”

In an instant, his hand stills, lets go of the chain around his neck, and the answer is apparent to him now, the memory of retrieving her necklace suddenly fresh in his mind. “We _were_ gone,” he sighs, running his fingers through his hair, “but not— It wasn’t permanent. We broke down camp because some of the men were traveling farther than the others and… you were right,” he allows, heart skipping a beat over the way her eyes light up briefly at the admission. “The weather this winter has been downright _awful_. We didn’t have much choice other than to pack up what little shelter we had and take it with us.”

“I… don’t understand,” she says, but it’s tentative, careful in the wake of their earlier tempers. “Why did you leave? Where were you traveling?”

“Where _weren’t_ we traveling, honestly? We broke off into groups to cover more ground more quickly— search parties,” he clarifies upon seeing her arch an eyebrow in clear confusion. A beat, a breath, and Robin moves his hand away from her knee to settle atop her hand. “We were looking for you.”

All of the air rushes out of her at once. It’s clearly not the answer she’d been anticipating, and he wonders what she must have thought, the day she came back to find their home gone.

(Wonders if she’d felt the same when she returned to the hollow, and found her former refuge in ashes.)

He can’t help but flinch at the way she pulls out of his touch but it’s not… personal, he realizes. She needs the space, much the same way they each had earlier, and regardless of what she may have thought, _this_ is still something _she_ needs to wrap her head around, in return. She turns to face the spring, straightens up a little and tries, fails to take a measured breath, and the sheer and utter _ire_ in her tone is enough to have him digging his teeth into his lower lip.

He has missed _her_ , too, in all of her righteous, snarking, stubborn indignance, and more than ever the temptation to kiss her soundly is increasingly hard to resist.

That, he knows, has always been her lead to take, and his to follow.

Gods, does he want to follow.

“Are you honestly telling me,” she says, striving and only sort of succeeding at keeping her temper in check, “that we just had bad timing? Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

There’s a part of him that wishes he were: each of them would have been spared heartache if they’d been here when she returned. Regina wouldn’t have gotten so sick— wouldn’t have come so close to _dying_ , but the peace they may have found would have been frighteningly fragile at best. Robin had only just returned himself, after all, and had yet to understand where the allegiance of his men lies— though, they’re not _his_ exactly, he’s realized. They never really have been, and at the end of the day their loyalty has always been pledged to others— to the people they’ve promised to look after, and the family they chose to patch together in a forest’s hidden heart.

This has never been about him.

There’s another part of him, however small, that wonders if Regina would have been half so kind to him a month ago. Her reluctance to think about their child— to get attached is enough to suggest that she wouldn’t have thawed much toward him. Part of it, he knows, was simply the struggle to survive the winter, but Robin can’t exactly blame her for trying to protect her heart.

_You were right_ , she’d said, and Robin’s words had cut much deeper than he could have ever anticipated they would.

“Fate isn’t always kind,” he offers after a long few moments of tense silence and gods, if that isn’t the understatement of a lifetime, “but… I think perhaps it was a near-miss for a reason.” He reaches for her again without much hesitation this time, settles his hand over hers and weaves their fingers together loosely. “Things work out when they’re supposed to, don’t they?”

Regina _tsk_ s derisively, but he doesn’t miss the way her fingers tighten their hold on him. “Factoring in a handful of blizzards and what I’m pretty sure was probably pneumonia at one point and a couple of weeks of being bed-ridden but… yeah,” she allows, smile a little wry when she turns to him again. “I guess they kind of do.”

The memory of her in the mirror— the vision Maleficent had granted him forces itself to the front of his mind once more, and Robin swallows down around the sudden surge of bile in his throat. He dreads what the answer to this might be, but he has to know: “Why didn’t— we looked for you, near the waterfall. Why didn’t you seek shelter there?”

“Honestly? By the time I even remembered it was an option, it was too late,” she sighs. “It’d already started snowing. The rocks were too slick to climb up into the cavern. I didn’t want to risk getting seriously injured, especially with…” She falters, slightly, gaze dropping to their hands, but she too doesn’t hesitate all that much before moving their hands to the still-small curve of her belly.

_I didn’t fight so hard to stay alive just for me_ takes the place of the memory that had poisoned his heart with fear, and if he didn’t before Robin has his answer now. For all that she tried very hard not to get attached, Regina has done nothing but put their child first since she realized she was pregnant, and all at once she is everything Robin has always aimed to be— brave, and heart, and better than those before her.

She could _never_ be like her poor excuse for a mother, and it is not lost on Robin how extraordinarily fortunate he is to have the opportunity to offer up an apology long overdue.

“I could’ve tried harder,” she says, so soft he almost doesn’t hear her. He blinks up at her, bewildered, but it’s her who can’t quite meet his eyes now, gaze fixed not on their hands but on the ground. “I know, I didn’t have many options, but… I let my pride get in the way. I could’ve searched harder for better shelter.”

“Is that why you ended up with them?” he asks in lieu of the protest that bubbles up at her misplaced guilt. “The… Lucas’, yes? You couldn’t find shelter?”

Regina nods, teeth digging into her lower lip as she shifts uncomfortably on the log. “The snow took away almost all of my options, and what little was left… Snow took that from me, too. She’s been conducting more raids, the people are scared. No one was willing to take the risk.” She falters, at the last few words, like it’s not quite the thing she really wants to say, and the distinctly not-hollow tone of her voice betrays her feelings. Not… resentment, exactly, or bitterness, but… disappointment, hurt.

_I’d forgotten what it was like to be alone_ , and all at once the pieces fall into place. She’d come back not once but twice— to Sherwood, and the Merry Men. Her roots were planted here, the same as all of them, and she’d followed the path back to them even when she thought he was dead. And then she _broke his fucking nose_ , and every step she’s taken since has replaced the ones she took when she left. And Robin, well.

Robin knows her well enough to know that obligation is never a sentence Regina will serve again, not after Snow, and she had been the one to lead him home when they’d found each other at last, and _that_ means…

Regina loves him still, and Robin _will not_ make the mistake of taking her for granted again— once was already too much.

Her attachment to the Lucas’ makes a little more sense, in light of that. “No one was willing to take the risk,” he says, following her lead, “and… a pair of werewolves were.”

Almost immediately Regina bristles, tenses under his touch and exhales sharply. Still, she doesn’t pull away from him, and though the tic of her jaw betrays her frustration she’s trying, he thinks, not to let her temper get the best of her. “The Lucas’ were nothing but kind to me from the minute Red found me passed out by their well,” she says tersely, still not looking at him. “If they hadn’t been, I’d probably be dead.”

“Hey,” he prompts softly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingertips fall, trace along the curve of her jaw, and it’s perhaps a touch risky but he tilts her face toward his all the same. The little flare of indignance is still there, a spark in her eyes, but the real heat of the ire is gone, and in its wake Regina just looks… _tired_. “I’ll be nice, alright? If you trust them, I’ll… try to be a bit more understanding about the wolf thing,” he promises. “I can’t speak for the others — it wouldn’t be fair — but it’s the least I can do, considering they kept you alive.

“You’ve… _no_ idea how scared I was, Regina,” he confesses, a too-earnest, breathless thing that tumbles out of him, “when I saw how sick you were.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In a way this is almost more intimate than the way he’d touched her a few minutes ago, earnest and over-eager and desperate. This is tentative, tender, soft and strong and sure, and for a few seconds Regina genuinely forgets how to breathe but...

_Indulge me_ , she’d said earlier, and not yet, not yet, _not yet_.

She reaches up to pull his fingers away but that’s as much space as she’s willing to put between them right now. “How… did you know I’ve been sick?” she asks, not for the first time today.

Something shifts in his expression at that, but he doesn’t give her time to dwell on it, just considers her for a good half moment before gently squeezing her hand. “Just… wait here a minute, yeah?” he sighs, and even though he looks every bit reluctant to let her go, he pushes himself to his feet anyway. More than a little curious, Regina glances over her shoulder as he makes his way back to the stables, gaze fixed upon him as he hoists his saddle bag up off of the ground, groaning slightly with the effort.

When he returns, the saddle bag hits the ground with a too-loud _thunk_ , and she doesn’t miss the way he grimaces as he sinks back down next to her on the log. They should really head down into camp so Granny can set his nose, but… selfishly she’s not ready to relinquish her undivided attention and share it among the others just yet. She still has so _many_ questions, and maybe some of them can wait a little while, but this?

More than anything else, she needs to know how he found his way back to her— and, okay, maybe that allegedly long story about how _he’s not fucking dead_.

On second thought, they might be up here a while.

He seems a little less disoriented, now that he’s sitting again, but no less uncomfortable as he shifts, fidgets next to her. It’s a testament to how hard he’s trying— to how _careful_ he’s being with his words here that he still manages to look her in the eyes. “Before… you get angry with me,” he ventures, “I need you to let me finish explaining.”

Well shit.

“Oh, I already don’t like where this is going,” she mutters, rubbing idly at her temple.

“We had no idea where you’d gone or how to find you. I was worried— we all were,” he explains— rationalizes, really, gods, this can’t be good. “Will argued that the queen had been after you for almost a decade at this point— that it wasn’t likely she’d managed to get her hands on you.”

The ghost of _did you hear that_ is a whisper in the wind, and she can’t help but shiver at the reminder of just how close Snow had come to finding her in that cellar.

Regina wraps their cloaks around her tighter.

“I think he was mostly trying to make me feel better,” Robin murmurs, smile tinged with mirth, “but he had a point.”

“About?”

“The queen. She’s got so many resources at her disposal and still hasn’t managed to capture you. Will figured she was just shit at utilizing her resources well, so I thought… maybe we could do better,” he says, and it’s careful, everything about him is so goddamn careful right now— the way he looks at her and halts over the last few words and rubs at the back of his neck.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

“Robin,” she says, slow and soft and just as careful, fuck, fuck, shit, “ _what did you do_?”

“Look, we didn’t go in _intending_ to steal anything,” he begins, and Regina’s stomach drops clear down to her knees.

“Hang on,” she interjects, shifting sideways slightly to put a little space between them. “Are you… seriously sitting here telling me that you _broke into Snow’s palace_?”

“It… wasn’t as reckless as it sounds,” he argues, but it’s half-hearted at best. “We put two weeks of _very_ careful planning into it before we would even consider making an attempt—”

Regina exhales sharply and pushes herself to her feet before he can get out another word. She takes a few steps toward the spring and stops, hands settling on her hips and heart hammering _hard_ against her sternum. It’s almost enough to leave her dizzy, the constant push-pull with him today. Every step they take to meeting each other halfway falls prey to the two steps they stumble back and she is _so. goddamn. sick_ of being angry with him.

“You know,” she scoffs, fingers flexing in an effort to keep her temper in check, “what you did in that village today is one thing. Willingly walking behind enemy lines is another.” She swallows around the lump in her throat at the thought, digs her teeth into her bottom lip in an effort to bite back rage. He’s an idiot, he always has been, but this is sheer stupidity and fuck biting her tongue, honestly, what is _wrong_ with him?

She spins on the spot too-fast, this one leaving her dizzier than the last but she won’t give him the satisfaction of not looking her in the eyes. “ _Are you out of your goddamn mind_?”

Robin sighs but it’s patient, too goddamn patient for her to handle right now, gods, she wants to punch him in the face again. “I know it sounds mad—”

“It doesn’t _sound_ crazy,” she snaps, taking a step toward him again. “It _is_.”

“We wouldn’t have done it without good reason,” he tries, but she is having none of it.

“I don’t fucking care what your reason was—”

“I just wanted to get my hands on that mirror,” he says over her, firm and still infuriatingly patient and he’s still just fucking sitting there, waiting her out like she’s being _unreasonable_. “I wanted to see where you were— _needed_ to see for myself that you were alright, that you were safe, and out of the cold.”

It’s a testament to how hard _she’s_ trying that she bites back the thing she really wants to say — a scathing, tactless _sorry to disappoint_ — and channels her frustration forward instead. “I’m sorry,” she says dryly, arching an eyebrow. “It sounded like you were trying to imply that you not only broke into Snow’s palace, which was a stupid enough idea to begin with, but that you also _stole her fucking magic mirror_.”

A beat, and then Robin just heaves a great sigh and reaches for his saddle bag, digs around for a minute and pulls out something wrapped carefully in cloth. “Say hello,” he mutters wryly as he unwraps the cloth, “to Maleficent.” Robin’s fingers curl around the handle before he lifts a small hand mirror up and turns the glass toward her.

For a moment it’s as if the heart of Sherwood falls eerily silent, and then there’s a shimmer, a flash, and a woman’s voice echoing almost unnaturally in the air. “Ah, the bandit Regina lives to see another day.”

In the blink of an eye the woman’s face appears in the mirror’s reflection, startling a gasping cough out of Regina and causing her to stumble back one, two steps until she practically trips over the too-long ends of Robin’s cloak. “ _What the fuck_?” she chokes out, sick stinging in her chest in an oh-so-helpful reminder that she too has pushed herself a little too far today.

“You’re not a fan of magic either, I’m assuming,” the mirror— woman— _Maleficent_ quips, equally as wry. “Though I can’t say I blame you, dear, all things considered.”

“Th--thanks?” Regina ventures, voice pitching unusually high. Reluctantly she shifts her gaze to Robin — she is not at _all_ comfortable taking her eyes off of Snow’s _spy_ for even one goddamn second — and arches her brow in silent question. “Maleficent. As in… fire-breathing dragon James went after as a wedding present for Snow. That Maleficent.”

Robin nods, a small, imperceptible thing, and the breath that punches out of Regina at the confirmation leaves her wanting nothing more than to burrow back under a pile of blankets in the Lucas’ lodge until she wakes up from this fucking insanity. “You look pretty good for someone’s who’s supposed to be dead,” she remarks, forcing herself to meet Maleficent’s eyes again.

“Don’t take it personally,” Robin all but drawls, like he’s fucking _joking_ with her. “There’s a lot of that going around today.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that,” Regina warns, unable to help the way her voice breaks a little. “I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to _start_. And honestly? I’m not even sure I want to know some of the answers.”

“Perhaps you should sit, dear,” Maleficent muses. “You do look a bit pale.”

Any last traces of mirth are gone from Robin’s expression at that, his eyes narrowing in clear concern. Maleficent merely arches an eyebrow at her, as if to say _well?_ , and for a minute Regina can only stare at them, flabbergasted.

A witch is the _last_ person she would ever expect Robin to _befriend_.

Okay, maybe not the _last_. Nottingham, maybe, or Prince John probably wears that crown.

It’d be the only one he’d rightfully own, anyway.

Though, Regina can’t exactly judge him, considering she’s not only defended werewolves to him three times today but also _brought them home_.

Home.

Fatigue settles in again, her shoulders feeling heavier than before and okay, maybe she should sit down for a little while. She’s not exactly in great shape at the moment, and she can’t afford to push herself more than she already has. With a sigh she slowly makes her way back toward the log and sinks down again, pressing her hands against her eyes for a minute to try and clear her head a bit.

“Did it ever occur to you,” she mumbles at Robin, forest floor suddenly swimming with stars when she pulls her hands away from her eyes, “the whole two weeks you were planning this, that asking for help from someone whose loyalty lies with the person who’s been trying to kill me for the last ten years might not be a good idea?”

A beat, and then, tentatively, “Like I said, we didn’t go in with the intention of taking anything. I thought it was just magic. I didn’t know it’d be a… person.”

“And you didn’t once think that this could backfire on you once you did?” she asks incredulously, snapping her head up to look at him and regretting it a little when her stomach turns over. “On any of the others? On _me_?”

“No, I didn’t,” he answers simply and gods, she really, _really_ wishes she could break his nose all over again. She could really use the satisfaction right about now. “She’s not loyal to Snow.”

“Like you could possibly know that after talking to her for a whole five minutes,” she argues.

“I’m still here, you know.”

Regina blinks down at the mirror in Robin’s hand, cheeks flushing when she catches Maleficent looking… less than amused. “Sorry, I just— I think I’m more than entitled to be a little skeptical here.”

“You are, but I am not in here by choice, dear,” Maleficent says, her tone brooking no argument. “Believe me, with what little freedom I _do_ have, I took great pleasure in being able to put a damper on the day of that pathetic excuse for a witch.”

Huh. Well that’s… interesting, to say the least, and definitely not what Regina was expecting— though, to be fair, she’s not exactly sure _what_ she expects here. “You… helped them,” she says, half-glancing over at Robin as she tries to put the pieces together. “You showed them where I was and you were just… _okay_ with them basically kidnapping you after that?”

“It was her idea, actually,” Robin chimes in, a little lighter than before, but he’s still being careful, she can tell, not to come across as flippant.

“You’re joking.”

“Hardly,” Maleficent drawls, recapturing Regina’s attention. “I wouldn’t have volunteered any information about your thief,” — Regina’s heart skip-flips at that, and she can _feel_ Robin’s eyes on her — “but if she’d asked…”

Regina is not naive: she knows all too well the power Snow can hold over someone when magic is involved, and Maleficent is not a fucking _mirror_ of her own free will.

Maybe she still has some supporters, after all.

“You were… trying to protect them?” Regina asks, beyond bewildered.

“Don’t make it sound so noble, dear,” Maleficent dismisses, but there’s something… off about the way she says it. “It’s not like I didn’t get something out of the arrangement.”

That’s… true, technically, but Regina can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than that. “Can she… summon you,” she ventures, feeling a little out of her element trying to talk about magic, “when she doesn’t have this mirror? Can she reach you through a different one?”

“No,” Maleficent says. “There’d have been no point in taking me with them, otherwise.”

“So that’s what she meant,” Regina breathes, clarity finally dawning on her. She catches Robin’s eyes, does a double take when she sees her earlier confusion in his expression instead. “Snow,” she explains. “Earlier, in the village— I was hiding when the guard was conducting the raid. I overheard her talking to David. She said she was trying to find me without her most prized possession. I’m… assuming she meant you,” she guesses, shifting her gaze back to Maleficent.

The sheer and utter _derision_ in Maleficent’s voice is almost enough to make Regina smile. “I’m sure I wouldn’t be half so valuable to her if I’d been given to her by anyone other than her precious James.”

The guilt that coils in Regina’s belly is habitual, she knows, and it’s only Robin’s eyes on her, still, that forces her to push it down. She can’t expect him to let go of his own guilt if she’s still holding onto hers. “So, uh— so she can’t see me,” Regina says, clearing her throat a little. “She can’t see what I’m doing or where I am or who I’m… with.”

There is clear affection in Robin’s eyes when she looks at him again, and all at once the fire that had fueled her earlier anger flickers into embers to reveal the spark that had ignited it in the first place.

Robin has always been too reckless for his own good, and Regina could never forgive herself if he’d met his end, at Snow’s hands.

He’s a fucking idiot, she thinks, for daring to love her at all.

And she loves him, loves him, loves him.

“Unless she’s got another sorcerer locked up somewhere— which, given how heavily she relied upon me, I think we can safely assume the answer is no,” Malfiecent says. A beat, and then, “You’re incredibly fortunate, dear, that she doesn’t know about your little friends here— or, she didn’t, anyway. I can’t say whether or not she’ll put the pieces together after today.”

That… just begs more questions— ones Regina already had, and still hasn’t asked, and still wants the answers to. But for all that Maleficent is trapped within the mirror’s… realm? Regina can’t help but feel her presence more acutely than she has since Maleficent first appeared in the mirror. And… they’re still up here for a reason. Regina doesn’t exactly want an audience for any of this, and she doesn’t want any more distractions.

Robin seems to sense her discomfort and turns toward Maleficent, his tone decidedly kind. “I think… that’ll be all for now, Maleficent,” he ventures, glancing sidelong at Regina for a few seconds. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Not a bother, dear.”

“I know,” Robin argues, “but I promised you I wouldn’t—”

“—and you didn’t,” Maleficent counters easily. “Besides, I’m not a genie, thief. This isn’t a three wishes sort of arrangement.”

Robin shakes his head, but Regina doesn’t miss the way his lips quirk into a half-smile. He reaches for the cloth next to him just as the glass of the mirror starts to shimmer slightly, and the words are tumbling out of Regina’s mouth without a second thought. “Maleficent? Thank you.” She gets a slight nod in reply, and then there’s a shimmer, a flash, and Maleficent disappears from view.

Regina shifts slightly on the log in an effort to be at least marginally less uncomfortable, fingers digging into the bark again while Robin wraps up the mirror and tucks it away. It’s not… perfect: she has no way of knowing if Maleficent can hear what’s around her even when she’s not visible— that’s probably something they should ask her. Regina can’t help but eye the saddle bag warily for a minute, teeth digging into her lower lip, and all at once she realizes she is being _stupid_.

Maleficent, in part, helped keep them all alive, and she’s clearly not going anywhere anytime soon.

Regina’s going to have to learn to trust her.

It’s Red who comes to mind, and Granny, and a dragon is… comparable, Regina thinks, to the likes of werewolves.

It’s the witch part that’s a little more disconcerting but… that’s an issue for another day.

Right now, she’s got more important things to deal with. “That… tells me how you knew I was sick,” she says at last, turning her attention to Robin again. “It doesn’t explain how you found me, in that village.”

Robin exhales heavily, almost like he’s… gathering himself, in getting back to the heart of the matter. Still, he nods slightly before reaching back behind his neck, fiddling with something for a few seconds before dipping his fingers beneath his collar. It’s the chain he’d been fiddling with earlier, she realizes, tucked beneath his shirt. He pulls it up and out, shifts it slightly between his fingers until the pendant rests over his knuckles on display and oh, oh.

That’s _hers_.

She’s reaching for it without a second thought, faltering only slightly when her fingertips brush against his skin, but that’s as much hesitation as she can manage at the moment. “I thought I lost it,” she breathes, thumb smoothing over the pendant.

“You did, for a while.” They’re both quiet for a half moment, eyes meeting over her necklace, before he’s shifting a little closer. Not for the first time Regina feels Yuletide’s firelight all over again, warm on her skin, and this time when he leans in to fasten the chain around her neck for her, Regina lets her hand find his knee and settle. “I, uh— I found it at the hollow,” he says, swallowing hard, “or what was left of it, anyway.”

A beat, and then he’s pulling back to look at her properly again, eyes flicking down and oh, oh, not yet, not yet, not fucking yet. “Were you there,” he ventures, “when she—”

Regina shakes her head, fingers smoothing over the pendant for a few seconds before she lets it settle against her chest, its weight welcome after so long without. “I found it like that.” Robin sighs, light and barely there but she knows, she can hear how relieved he is. It’s her turn to hesitate for a few seconds before blinking up at him, gratitude overshadowed by confusion once more. “I don’t understand,” she says. “This… still doesn’t explain how you found me.”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Robin sucks in a breath to try and steel himself for what comes next. If she wasn’t all that keen on him getting help from Maleficent, he can’t imagine Regina will be thrilled with this. The breath that tumbles out of him haphazardly is choppy and heavy and fuck, he really, _really_ hopes this isn’t another bottom line for her.

Crossing one was one too many; he doesn’t want to lose her again.

He can’t.

The dull pounding at the base of his skull spreads out and up, has him gritting his teeth against the headache that’s building behind his eyes and longing for a fucking _werewolf_ to set his goddamn nose already. But he owes Regina this, too, and so much more, and his nose can wait a little longer until she’s gotten all of the answers she needs. Reluctantly, Robin reaches for his saddle bag again, fingers dipping in one of the smaller pockets this time, and it doesn’t take long for his hand to enclose around glass. He spares the vials a glance before dropping the empty one back to the bottom and taking the full one with him.

Slowly, he turns toward her again, vial full of crystalline blue held in his outstretched hand, and his heart sinks when Regina shrinks away, fear plain in her eyes. “Is that—”

Robin nods and swallows down around the lump in his throat, trying very, _very_ hard not to make any assumptions. “Snow— she’d been brewing it before we broke in,” he explains, resisting the urge to move closer to her. “Maleficent said it’s meant to lead you to someone wherever they are.”

Regina loses what little color she had left in her cheeks as she stares down at the vial. “How?”

“You have to have something that belongs to the person you’re searching for. Using this—”

“—will lead you right to them. That’s— _fuck_ ,” she breathes. She’s on her feet in an instant and back to pacing, and Robin doesn’t at all miss the way her hand falls, lingers over her middle. “Fuck, that’s how she knew I was in that village, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says apologetically, moving quickly to tuck the vial back into his bag. Keeping it out of sight, he thinks, is probably best at the moment. “Although Will and I did… tamper with it a bit before we left, after we’d taken a few samples for our own,” he admits.

Regina stops in her tracks and glances at him over her shoulder, eyebrows arched in obvious disbelief. “Maleficent proved more useful than I’d anticipated. She knew how to manipulate the poti— it without rendering it completely useless. I… wasn’t wild about the idea,” he says, and while it’s the truth he can’t help but hope his own aversion to magic isn’t lost on her. “But we figured it’d buy us enough time to find you before Snow did.”

Something about her softens, at that, but it’s not a victory— it almost never is, with her. She’ll put an argument on hold, or concede certain points, but Regina is stubborn, headstrong to the last, and he cannot imagine her dismissing his involvement with magic just because it helped them find her.

“And… you did,” she says, turning toward him. “You used that potion with… this,” — her fingertips graze the pendant of her necklace, linger for a few seconds — “and you found me.”

Slowly, Robin draws in a breath and pushes himself to his feet, and it takes far, far more effort than he’s proud of not to move toward her again. This is not a wound he can soothe; it’s not the same, as before. “Yes.”

All of the air rushes out of her at once, shoulders falling, but it’s not until she speaks— until he hears the strain in her voice that he recognizes it for what it is: not confusion, or anger, but something much, much worse.

She’s disappointed.

“You _loathe_ magic,” she argues, like she’s… _trying_ to make sense of it. “Maybe more than I do and… All magic comes with a price, Robin, and you used it _twice_ , if we count the mirror.”

“Technically, Maleficent used her own magic to show me where you were. I only asked her to show me. And the potion— I didn’t brew that either,” he reasons and no, no, he’s not doing this, he’s _not_ , what the _fuck_ is wrong with him, _why_ is he pushing back like this fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

The look Regina levels at him is more than enough to call him out on it and he could _kiss her_ for pushing back right now if it weren’t her decision to make. “Maleficent, I’ll give you, maybe, but you can’t argue proxy on this one,” she says, her tone clearly brooking no argument, thank _gods_. “You may not have made the potion, Robin, but you _used_ it.”

He takes a step forward, stops when he sees her wrap her arms around her middle and swallows his fucking pride down. She’s every right to be wary of magic, of course she does — he’s the same, or at least… he was, moreso, before all of this — but this isn’t just about her anymore. She’s right: all magic comes with a price, and where each of them has come close to death in the last ten weeks, Regina has not fought this hard for this long just to ensure her own survival.

Their child will not pay for any more of Robin’s mistakes.

“Yeah, I did,” he agrees at last. “It’s a price that _I_ am willing to pay, Regina, without any sort of loopholes.” A beat, and then he’s taking a few steps forward before he really thinks it through, only stops a good ten feet away or so when he hears the hitch in her breath, sees the uncertainty in her eyes. “I’d’ve done anything to find you,” he says, so quiet it’s damn near a whisper, “and make sure you were okay.”

Her chin’s quivering as she sucks in a breath, clearly trying to steady herself. There’s a slight sheen to her eyes — he can see it now that he’s closer — and Robin recognizes it for what it is: she’s striving, very hard, not to cry.

Gods, he’s really and truly fucked this up beyond repair, hasn’t he?

“You used magic to find me,” she says, so soft he almost can’t hear her, but he doesn’t miss the way disappointment causes her voice to break, somewhere in the middle. “You used magic for me.”

He manages to meet her eyes for a few seconds more before he caves at last, drops his gaze down and huffs out a breath as the full force of her disappointment slams into him. Idly, he reaches up, fingers dipping beneath his collar to toy with the chain around his neck except… it’s not there anymore, he’s given it back to her. It’s hers, it’s _always_ been hers, even when he didn’t quite know his own heart yet, and that too is hers still, even now. Hers to hold, and break, if she chooses, and it’d be no less than what he deserves after what he did to hers. Robin swallows thickly, eyes narrowing as he tries to think of something, _anything_ to keep his hope alive.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter because Regina is the one to kiss him, and it is _exactly_ like coming home.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Finally_.

Regina rocks, arches up onto the balls of her feet, stumbling, swaying slightly as she tries to keep her balance but she refuses to break the kiss, not for a single goddamn second. Fuck, she can’t believe he did this, for _her_ , because he’s a goddamn fucking idiot and she couldn’t stop loving him even when she _tried_. She slides her hand up his neck, can feel the thrum of his pulse under her palms and he’s alive, alive, _alive_. Robin’s hands are dipping beneath their cloaks and curling around her waist in an effort to hold her steady but she just ends up flush against him, fingers gripping, clutching at the collar of his shirt for purchase and yanking him clumsily closer. He squeezes her waist, muffles a little moan against her mouth— 

—and then he’s using his grip on her waist to push her away. The kiss breaks before she’s really ready for it, leaves her breathless and blinking against the gray-white light of approaching dusk. His eyes are still shut, brow knit tight and jaw set hard like he’s… upset. Upset, and that… _stings_ , leaves her faltering and taking a half-step back without really thinking it through, blinking back the tears still brimming on her lashes. Robin’s hands tighten at her waist, keeping her from pulling away but he won’t look at her, why is he— 

“Nose,” he mumbles, wincing slightly.

Oh. Right. That.

Regina can’t help but relax in his embrace, hands settling against his chest as she bites back a smile. “Sorry,” she says, light and breathless. “I guess I wasn’t exactly gentle, was I?”

His face is still pinched in pain, but he makes a noise she thinks is meant to be a laugh… sort of, and there’s nothing but sheer and utter _want_ in his eyes when he opens them again. A beat, and then, just as breathless as she’d been— as she still _is_ , “Worth it.”

Robin takes the lead from her at last and tugs her flush against him again, bruising a kiss against her lips. The force of it has her stumbling back, nearly tripping over their cloaks again but Robin doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t let go or let her fall. She can feel him grappling for their cloaks, thinks he might be trying to lift them so she doesn’t trip but that’s as much thought as she can spare for it because he’s leaning into her and cradling her jaw. Another stumble back and each kiss is fervent, damn near biting. Another, and he barely gives her time to gasp for breath between. Another, and her arms loop around his neck for purchase, tugging him almost impossibly closer. Another, and his hand sinks into her hair, fingers tangling at the place her braid begins. Another, kisses harder still and it’s like _he’s_ the one who’s forgotten about his broken nose— 

A gasp escapes her, high and sharp when her back collides _hard_ with one of the trees near the stables, pain flaring up and out around her bruise. “Easy,” she breathes, hands slipping down to his collar again.

His hand settles at her hip as he tries to catch his breath, thumb grazing gently over the curve of her belly. “You alright?”

“Fine,” she says, and it’s… mostly the truth, even with the uncomfortable twinge along her side. “Just… ease up a bit, yeah?”

Robin nods and noses affectionately at her temple before resting his forehead against hers, exhaling heavily. “You’re not… disappointed?”

“Disappointed?” she echoes, brow furrowing as she pulls back to meet his eyes. “What, because you used magic?” Robin nods, fingers toying with the end of her braid. “I mean, I’m not _thrilled_ about it. Who knows if you’ve paid the cost—”

“What,” he quips, corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile, “a broken nose isn’t enough?”

Regina levels him with a _look_. “Robin, I’m being serious. I spent two hours today thinking you were dead, I don’t—” The words catch, stick in the middle of her throat, mind stuck in a loop of _what if_ and fuck, fuck, no, she’s not going there, he’s fine, he’s—

“‘m here,” he murmurs, thumb sweeping soothingly across her cheek to catch a stray tear.

She turns into his touch instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, and this time his pulse is a thrum in his wrist, beating strong against her lips. “I don’t want to feel that way ever again.”

She doesn’t quite relax into his embrace, but there’s something oddly… freeing about _letting_ herself cry in front of him now, rather than fight against it. Tears are all that’s left of a heart shattered over losing him — or thinking she’d lost him, anyway — and all at once she realizes that he was right, earlier. As… _frustrated_ as she is that they’d simply missed crossing paths a month ago, she knows she wouldn’t have been half as willing to open herself up to him again if they’d been here when she came back.

Things work out when they’re supposed to, and letting him know just how _much_ he means to her doesn’t feel quite so terrifying anymore.

Maybe… it’s all about timing, and Regina has to redefine what bravery looks like in her eyes.

Robin rests his lips on the crown of her head, his breath warm as he exhales. “I can’t make promises I won’t be able to keep,” he says, and _fuck_ she knows that but it’s still like a knife in her heart to hear it. “But I can promise that for as long as I am able, I will always find my way back to you.”

And at long last, Robin comes _home_.

_Fuck._

She breaks down a little more at that, any last crumbling remnants of her walls collapsing into dust as she lets her head fall against his torso. She just doesn’t have the energy that crying takes anymore — it’s exhausting, and she’s still spent from earlier, and sick, and she really just wants to fucking collapse on their sorry excuse for a bed and _sleep_ — but her breath hitches and her eyes burn with the _need_ to cry even if no more tears fall. Robin’s arms fold around her, pull her in to rest against him fully and he rocks her slowly, doing his best to mollify her with soft words and sounds.

_Gods_ , she’s missed this— missed _him_ , like this.

“You were wrong, you know.”

Or not.

Regina blinks up at him, eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?”

“Earlier,” he says, eyes downcast as his thumbs graze idly along the curve of her belly, “you said I’d been right when I accused you of not understanding family.” Her heart skips, picks up pace at the reminder, but there’s something so incredibly _tender_ in the way he touches her, well beyond careful— like a tourniquet to stem the bleeding along the front lines.

She’s so _tired_ of being angry.

A beat, and then Robin’s meeting her eyes, hands stilling. “I wasn’t. _You_... know more about what it means to be a family than any of us combined. I knew that the day you told me about your mother— about what happened with Snow, and James, and the king.”

It’s brief, the memory that stirs up: camping out under the stars after he’d come to her aid again, and kept her from being caught; chancing glances at him every so often, just to see the way the firelight danced across his face before she’d she’d remembered he wasn’t _hers_ to behold, back then; surrendering secrets up with billowing smoke, only to realize that he’d merely given her another place for them to be buried.

Regina has never been able to bite her tongue for all that long, and Robin had _rewarded_ her for her candor by giving her a safe place to land.

Most days, she thinks, love is a choice; that night, she thinks it had chosen her.

“Regina, I promise you,” he says, hands slipping, pulling away to grasp hers, “I didn’t mean a damn word of what I said the day you left, and even if I _had_ , the rest of the men would’ve proved me wrong ages ago.”

It’s not an apology, not yet, but it has tears stinging at her eyes again and she blinks down, away to try and keep her composure. “Really?” she muses, indulging him a little as she rubs her hands idly along his forearms. “How do you figure?”

“We know how to show up for each other at the end of the day,” he says, moving to match her and settling his hands at her elbows, “but… they wouldn’t traverse entire kingdoms for just anyone. They wouldn’t willingly charge into a veritable snake pit,” — her hands still, just for a second, tremors an echo of the ones that had consumed her the morning she’d found the king’s body — “knowing full well they might not come out of it for anything less than _heart_ , Regina, and you’re theirs.”

A beat, and then Robin’s leaning in close, lips barely a breath away and whispering soft, low, “You’re mine, too.”

She’s gentler with her kiss this time, tremors in her hands calming as she pulls him closer to her. Her fingers smooth, stutter over the stubble shadowing his jaw — it’s thicker, rougher than usual, he needs a shave soon — and it’s almost impossible not to gravitate toward him in search of another kiss. Almost, because the bruise coloring his skin around his nose is front and center like this, and while she hasn’t forgotten about the need to set it sooner rather than later, it is not at all lost on her that his nose is not the only thing she broke.

Intentionally or not.

“That day I left,” she ventures quietly, slipping her hands down to rest against his chest, “I called you out on not stepping up to take care of the others, but that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You’re not responsible for how I chose to interpret that,” he dismisses, but the brief flare of irritated indignation that rises up in her chest at his denial is quickly quelled when he reaches up to clasp a hand over hers. “I can’t… change what I did or take back what I said, but I _am_ sorry, Regina, for all of it. And I’m not—” He’s quiet for a minute, teeth digging into his lip like he’s trying to be careful with his words again, but it’s not until he squeezes her hand a little harder that Regina even realizes she’s holding her breath, in the face of an actual apology. “I’m not asking you to forgive me for it,” he says, voice surprisingly even. “I’m only asking for the chance to earn it.”

_It was easier to be defensive than disappointed_ , she’d confessed, and this, she realizes is no different. This comes down to blood on the front lines, where her heart has been bleeding in the in between, and to not forgive him— to hold onto her anger is the easy way out. It does nothing to move them forward, and maybe being reckless is the key to letting go.

Today, she gets to make love a choice, and Robin can’t steal something that’s been given to him.

Her hands reach up, cup his face again, and it’s easier to let these tears fall than to fight them back this time. “I thought you were dead,” she says, a hushed, half-broken thing.

“Don’t do that, I’m not—” He exhales heavily, clearly struggling not to immediately make this an actual argument, but she can feel the fight melt out of him as his hand relaxes around hers. He leans into her, rests his forehead against hers, and she can’t quite make out his expression when they’re this close but she can hear the slight strain in his voice when he speaks again. “Believe me, I can imagine what that must’ve felt like for you, thinking that, but please, don’t… let it be an excuse,” he says. A beat, and then, “It’s not an absolution for the way I hurt you.”

Regina can’t bite back the sigh that escapes her but that’s still… better, she allows, than her temper flaring up. “No, it’s not,” she agrees, nudging him slightly to get him to pull back. “But… I think we’ve wasted enough time on pride, don’t you?”

He softens, at that, and the earlier traces of exhaustion creep back in around the edges, making the shadows under his eyes more apparent against the bruising around his nose. “More than,” he mutters, grazing a kiss to her fingertips.

Her hands skim, curl around to settle at the back of his neck, and something in her settles at the way his hands curl around her waist this time. “I’m really not interested in holding a grudge, Robin. It’s… _exhausting_ , trust me. I’ve been on the other end of that for almost a decade. I’ve seen what it can do to a person. I don’t want to waste time— waste _heart_ ,” she says, quiet and emphatic, “on something that only ends up hurting us both.”

Robin’s answering smile is a gentle, hopeful thing that has her toes curling in her boots again. “I don’t either.”

“Then can we just… move forward?” she sighs, and it’s her turn to lean into him, rest her forehead against his for a minute to try and keep her composure. “That’s all I want to do here— I have to, Robin. I can’t afford not to and…” Regina swallows hard around the sudden lump in her throat, and it’s only her pulling back and forcing herself to meet his eyes that keeps her from reaching down to wrap an arm around her middle. “If you’re in this with me, then so do you, okay? Because I am… scared out of my fucking mind about doing this enough as it is,” she confesses, and it’s a very near thing, she thinks, that her voice doesn’t actually break. “I don’t want to bring a child into this world still holding onto all of that hurt.”

This time he’s the one to look away, gaze drifting down to her belly, but it’s only when his hands follow suit that he finds his voice again. “I’m scared, too,” he says, and under any other circumstances, she thinks, it’d be a little white lie to make her feel better, but there’s something altogether fragile in the way he says it that promises truth. “But I swear to you, Regina, I’m going to do whatever it takes to do right by both of you. I’m not—” His face knits into a frown as he bites back the words, but it’s only for a beat and then he’s looking her in the eyes, almost… _pleading_ with her. “I won’t be my father, not ever again.”

_The harder you try not to be him_ lingers on her tongue but she swallows it down and cups his face again, thumbs finding the divots of his dimples, and in the end all Regina can do is smile. “Don't overthink it.”

He’s… gentler, this time, when he takes the lead from her, but the rough way he tugs her against him again is enough to startle a sharp gasp out of her. His mouth is on hers before she can even _think_ about trying to catch her breath, each kiss open and warm and making her knees buckle, just a little, against the weight of his wanting. It’s enough to having her fingers curling in tandem with her toes as she brings the kiss to a close, presses her lips firm to his and arches into another.

Her nails drag, scratch lightly along his jaw as she makes to wrap her arms around him again, and while he’s half-successful at muffling his moan against her mouth there’s no hiding the heat of him when he flat-out _pins_ her against the tree again, _fuck_. More than ten fucking weeks it’s been since she left— ten weeks since she’d felt a change in the winds and sought refuge in his arms. Ten weeks since she’d woken up to light, and love, and taken him inside her with the dawn. Ten weeks since she’d last felt his skin against hers, bare and slick with sweat and flushed with arousal.

The mere memory of it is enough to pull all of her heat right to the surface, sets a spark alight and leaves her skin tingling in its wake. _Robin_ falls from her lips, breathless and wanting and pulling a low groan out of him. His hips twitch, just slightly, but it has her sex pulsing traitorously between her thighs in reply as her thoughts twist, shift into what it might be like to pin _him_ beneath her again, have his hands settle at her hips and smooth over the curve of her belly and oh… _oh_.

That’s… new, and far more vigorous than she should should even be thinking about right now, frankly, considering the way her breath turns ragged, just shy of rasping between each kiss. Right, she’s still sick, still spent from sprinting through the village earlier and… _fuck_ , that feels good, the gentle, grazing drag of his lips across her jaw. Half out of habit, Regina arches against him, granting him better access. This time he’s the one to follow her lead, lips trailing down and sucking a warm kiss on the underside of her jaw near her pulsepoint, fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Not like this, not when they’re out in the open and it’s still fucking freezing and she knows— she _knows_ it is, but it’s hard to feel anything other than the overwhelming heat of him against her right now as he slots a leg between hers fuckfuckfuck. Shit, they can’t do this here, they have to get back to camp before it— 

A pinprick of cold on her cheek causes her eyes to fly open in surprise. She can’t help but blink blearily against the sudden snowflakes spiralling from the sky in lazy circles that are decidedly a damper on the fire currently burning beneath her skin.

Oh, fuck snow, honestly.

With a sigh, Regina touches the side of his head to try and get his attention. He groans when she grips his hair and tries to pull him back a little, but Robin, with his uncanny ability to focus on a single goal without wavering, ignores her in favor of teasing a biting kiss at her earlobe, _fuck_ him, this is not helping. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to resist the impulse to close her eyes again and just… _let him_ love her, like this, but…

The part of her that’s been striving to survive for ten long weeks on her own in the middle of what she’s pretty sure is the harshest winter in living memory, the part that’s kept her trudging through snow just to stay alive, the part that’s more stubborn than Granny, or Red, and certainly more stubborn than Robin — of Locksley, Hood, or otherwise — takes the reins and jerks her back into awareness.

“Robin, it’s snowing.”

He hums, distracted, switches to her other side and grazes featherlight kisses against her skin, breath warm, damp against her ear, _oh no_. “Robin, I’m serious,” Regina says, her voice rough and her hands rougher as she pushes on him slightly, and that, at least, seems to jar him out of his lusty daze for a minute. “I missed this,” she says, softer this time. “I missed this and I missed you, but…”

Her heart is not the same as it was, is brave, even when it’s broken, and ten weeks of snowstorms and sickness and sanctuary amongst wolves — amongst _women_ who stood between her and Death’s door — have not left Regina the same, either.

Robin has always seen _her_ , right from the day she met him, never faltered in the face of her sharp tongue and bristling temper and tendency to keep people at arm’s length. He’d seen her through smoke and under starlight, at the bank of a river and in the cavern behind a waterfall’s curtain, and she’d let him, but…

Maybe she has to let him see this, too— not beyond her walls, but into the places she’s built up strongholds in his absence.

Robin is alive, and Regina could keep _him_ safe, too.

Just... preferably next to a blazing fire.

Her smile softens around the edges and she rests her hands on his chest, fingers curling in a little on his tunic. “I miss being _warm_.”

She doesn’t miss the flash of guilt in his eyes at the reminder — fuck, how bad off _was_ she, when he saw her in that mirror? — but it’s gone almost as soon as it had appeared, replaced instead by a small smile playing at his lips. “What,” he quips, hands smoothing up and down her back beneath their cloaks, “this isn’t helping? Or… this?” he adds, face crinkling into a funny little frown as his hands come back around to her front.

Her eyes follow his, gaze dropping down just as his hands find the edges of her— _his_ scarf, and this time she’s the one struggling not to smile. “I wondered where this had gone,” he says, quirking an eyebrow at her when she look up again. “Took it with you when you left, did you?”

Regina digs her teeth into her bottom lip but it does little to disguise her smile. “Made out like a bandit.” Robin huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, but there’s something altogether fond in _his_ smile that makes her unfurl his scarf from around her neck anyway. “Besides,” she murmurs, arching up on tip-toe a little to hook the scarf around his neck and tug him close again, “how else would I have found my way back to you?”

Robin smiles into the kiss she claims and steals a last one of his own before they head to camp. “Knowing you,” he says, soft and low as he touches his forehead to hers, careful not to aggravate his nose, “I’m sure you’d have found a way.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Frozen Hearts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064288) by [ankareeda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ankareeda/pseuds/ankareeda)




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